


Green-Eyed Snake

by Tathrin



Series: Green-Eyed Snake [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 1: Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone, Gen, No character bashing, Slytherin Harry, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-20
Updated: 2011-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 03:32:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tathrin/pseuds/Tathrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Harry runs into the Malfoys at King's Cross Station rather than the Weasleys? How will this tiny alteration of fate change the entire wizarding world as we know it? And what will the Sorting Hat have to say...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Journey from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a What If? AU, one that takes the established world of Harry Potter and, in changing one little detail, turns it sharply on its head. In this case, the alteration takes place when Harry arrived at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Thus, the beginning starts out identically to the published version of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s/Sorcerer’s Stone. Rather than transcribe the first ninety pages of the book, which would be both silly and plagiaristic, I have begun with the section relevant to the point of divergence; anyone wishing to get the “full flavor” of reading this alternate take on the world of Potter may, of course, start by opening their copy of Stone to the first page, and reading until they reach the point where Harry sets out for King’s Cross Station, which is where things begin to change.
> 
> Since I want to, as much as possible, keep this story directly entrenched in Rowling’s Potter-verse, at many times I will quote directly from the book (the American version, I’m afraid, as that’s the one I have access to). At other times I may jump ahead or gloss over parts, leaving you all to incorporate what you know happened rather than retelling large sections that would be pretty much identical to the original text. After all, I don’t want to change anything that wouldn’t be changed by Harry’s new, different life. As such, things will become more divergent as time passes, and the ripples from this change spread out through the world. Other things will, of course, happen exactly as they did originally, since Harry would have had no direct effect upon them occurring.
> 
> I am not trying to steal Jo’s words and pass them off as my own; I’m sure you’ll all be easily capable of recognizing the original wording when it shows up. It should be rather familiar. I have chosen not to mark the quoted sections as doing so disrupts the flow of the story. Know, however, that there will be times when I copy directly from the book; I am not doing this to steal, but rather to maintain the original flavor and feel of Potter. I’m certainly not doing it to be lazy; I assure you, it was much more time-consuming to find all the relevant passages, and much more difficult for me to try and write in a way that would (hopefully) seamlessly integrate Jo’s words rather than to simply let loose in my usual tone. But I thought it was important to incorporate these sections. I think the story is somewhat more disturbing when it feels like you’re reading the original Harry Potter…just with a strange, greenish twist.
> 
> Thank you. I hope you enjoy.
> 
>   
>    
> 

Harry woke at five o’clock and was too excited and nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because he didn’t want to walk into the station in his wizard’s robes—he’d change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two hours later, Harry’s huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the Dursleys’ car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to Harry, and they had set off.

They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry’s trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

“Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine—platform ten. Your platform should be somewhere in the middle, but they don’t seem to have built it yet, do they?”

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and in the middle, nothing at all.

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He left without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away. All three of them were laughing. Harry’s mouth went rather dry. What on earth was he going to do? He was starting to attract a lot of funny looks, because of Hedwig. He’d have to ask someone.

He stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention platform nine and three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry couldn’t even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to get annoyed, as though Harry was being stupid on purpose. Getting desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o’clock, but the guard said there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away, muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket inspector’s stand between platforms nine and ten. He looked around to see if anyone was watching him and that’s when he spotted possible salvation.

_Those three have to be wizards_ , Harry thought. The people in question—a tall man, a thin woman, and a boy who looked to be around Harry’s age—weren’t even making much of an effort to hide it. Like Harry, they had an owl-filled-cage and a large trunk perched in their cart, but even without their luggage he would have pegged them as magical. Not only were the adults dressed in long, flapping cloaks, but the tall man seemed to keep forgetting that he should keep a hold of the handle of his trolley. His negligence didn’t stop it from rolling along obediently at his side.

Harry shoved at his own heavy cart and pushed his way towards them.

The three of them were clearly family, being all of them thin and pale and blond and almost identical. They looked so alike that Harry wasn’t sure if the man and woman were husband and wife or siblings. Either way, they were both clearly related to the boy with them; he had the same sharp nose as the woman and the same cold gray eyes as the man.

The woman was complaining about something as Harry approached but he didn’t catch the words, just her unhappy tone.

“Draco wanted to see the Muggle carriages,” the man with the trolley said. His voice was cold and bored but the small boy walking between them seemed unabashed at the possible criticism. He was staring around in a sort of disgusted fascination as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. When he turned back around to stare after a Muggle businessman, Harry recognized his face at once: it was the pale boy from Madame Malkin’s robe shop.

“What is _that?_ ” the boy asked.

“I’ve no idea, Draco, don’t point,” the man scolded distractedly.

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t sure about asking the apparently anti-Muggle boy for help figuring out something that was probably obvious to anyone familiar with the wizarding world but he didn’t see any other option. He doubted he’d have much luck just waiting around until some other, friendlier-looking wizarding family came along.

“Ex-excuse me?” Harry asked. They stopped and turned around and gave him three identically icy, supercilious glares.

“Ye-es?” the man said coldly in the same bored, drawling tone the boy had used earlier. He was quite tall and imposing and he stared down his nose at Harry as if weighing his potential and finding him wanting. Harry missed the intimidating but comfortable bulk of Hagrid.

He swallowed. “Um, I just, ah—I wanted to know, I mean, you are going to Hogwarts, aren’t you?” he asked quickly before he lost his nerve. He _had_ to get to the train. “Only, well, I was looking for the platform, and…and I don’t know where it is, you see, and no one can tell me, and I thought…” His voice trailed off and he ended with a shrug and a pleading smile.

The tall man raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. The three of them exchanged an amused glance. “Honestly,” the woman murmured, studying him like he was a particularly nasty variety of bug.

“What’s wrong,” asked the boy, “can’t your big, hairy friend figure out how to count past nine?” He laughed and the adults with him smiled indulgently.

“Hagrid’s not with me,” Harry muttered, looking down at his feet.

“The gamekeeper at Hogwarts?” the woman asked, surprised. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “Why on earth would _he_ be here?”

“He hasn’t got any parents,” the boy offered, but before he could continue the man’s gray eyes narrowed and seemed to fasten on Harry’s face like crosshairs.

“Be quiet, Draco,” he commanded softly. “Of course he hasn’t. After all, this is Harry Potter.”

The boy gaped and the woman’s eyebrows shot up towards her pale hairline. The man’s sneer became a smile, something halfway between encouraging and curious, although his eyes were still cold.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Er…yeah,” he muttered.

“Do show some compassion, Draco,” the man ordered. “It’s hardly Harry Potter’s fault if he’s new to all of… _this_ , now is it?”

Harry shuffled his feet awkwardly. They were all staring at him as if trying to memorize every detail of his person and Harry knew for a fact that his face wasn’t interesting enough to justify that kind of scrutiny. This was worse than the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron; at least there he had only been embarrassed and befuddled at the outpouring of recognition and good cheer from complete strangers. He really wasn’t sure how to feel about the attention these three wizards were paying to him now, and if he’d looked up he would have noticed that they didn’t seem altogether certain of what sort of reaction they ought to have, either. There was naked curiosity on all their faces, and the woman and boy both seemed to be looking to the tall man for some sort of clue as to how they should handle this unexpected revelation.

“Well, well, Harry Potter.” The man suddenly held his hand out and Harry jumped slightly. “What a pleasure to meet you at last,” he said smoothly. His grip on Harry’s hand was tight and chill. “I am Lucius Malfoy,” he said. “This is my wife, Narcissa, and our son, Draco.”

Harry shook hands all around, feeling very out-of-place. “Er, hello,” he said. “Nice to meet you all.”

“Indeed,” murmured Lucius Malfoy. His eyes were very bright.

“The time, Lucius,” Narcissa hissed, her eyes fixed on Harry with an unfathomable glint in them. “Draco will miss the train if we don’t hurry along.”

“Right,” said Lucius. He glanced at the large clock on the far wall and swore mildly. “Oh blast. Very well, Harry Potter, you come along with us and we’ll see to it you make it to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.” He smiled at Harry and seemed unaware of the sharp look his wife shot him.

“Oh, uh, thank you,” Harry stammered, hurrying to keep up with the Malfoys. Lucius flicked his wrist and suddenly Harry’s trolley was rolling along of its own accord. Harry almost tripped and quickly trotted to keep up with it. “Wow,” he said quietly.

Harry looked up as they approached the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Lucius slowed down and so did Harry, tugging hard on his cart to restrain it. Narcissa and Draco moved out in front and Narcissa took Draco’s hand. He rolled his eyes at Harry but allowed his mother to pull him forward and they sauntered through the solid metal barrier between platforms nine and ten as if it were open air.

Harry gaped. Lucius Malfoy smiled. “Just walk forward, Potter,” he said jovially. “Don’t flinch, now, that’s important.”

“That’s, that’s it?” Harry asked nervously. “There’s no spell or, or thing with a wand, or—?”

“Just walk,” replied Lucius, seemingly amused. “I’ll wait and make sure you get through, all right?” The smile he directed at Harry was probably supposed to be warm and friendly but it didn’t offer a lot of reassurance.

Harry grinned back nervously. “Right,” he said.

He looked at the barrier, swallowed hard, and then looked back up at Malfoy. The wizard nodded at him and gave an impatient little wave. Harry looked back at the barrier. He took a deep breath, got a firm grip on his eager cart, and shoved forward. The barrier drew nearer quickly and Harry knew that he was going to crash into it. He couldn’t stop, though; the trolley was still moving and it was too heavy for him to halt it now that it had its momentum up. He closed his eyes and waited for the shock of impact and Lucius Malfoy’s laughter as he sprawled across the station floor.

It didn’t come…he kept on running…he opened his eyes.

A steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o’clock. Harry looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words _Platform Nine and Three-Quarters_ on it. He had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Behind Harry, Lucius Malfoy and his cart emerged from the archway. He glanced around imperiously, seemingly unflustered by the noise and bustle of the platform.

“Close your mouth, Potter,” Draco said with a laugh. “You look like a Muggle.”

His father shot him a look and the pale boy fell silent. “Draco, why don’t you look after Potter here and make sure he gets to Hogwarts all right? You can help him settle in _properly_.” Malfoy smiled. “I really think it’s the _least_ we can do after _everything_ that Harry Potter has done for us…don’t you?”

Harry glanced down, embarrassed. He hadn’t actually _done_ anything and it made him really uncomfortable that everyone acted like he had.

Draco appeared confused but his father raised an eyebrow and the boy shrugged. “All right,” he said. “Come on, Potter, let’s see if we can find a decent seat on the train.”

Before either of them could move Draco was enveloped in his mother’s arms. He rolled his eyes again but endured her tearful hug. Harry looked away, feeling funny and alone. He concentrated on the chaos swimming around them and ignored the family’s farewells. He watched a veritable tribe of red-haired wizards trundle past in a loud parade, followed by a round-faced boy frantically searching for his toad. There were shrieks and squeals somewhere nearby but when Harry craned his neck to look he couldn’t distinguish which part of the platform they were coming from; nothing stuck out as particularly noteworthy above all the fascinating activity and stranger people that were milling about.

Only when the train whistled demandingly did Narcissa at last release her son. Lucius sent both Draco’s and Harry’s trunks floating smoothly onto the train with a wave of his wand then he grabbed Draco for a quick embrace of his own. The train started to move and Harry had to help tug the other boy aboard as his parents at last let go. The Malfoys stood waving on the platform, Narcissa looking tearful and clinging tightly to her husband’s arm; Lucius seemed deep in thought, almost distracted. Harry watched until a thick cloud of steam obscured them from view but Draco had already turned to examine the interior of the Hogwarts Express.

“Hurry up, Potter,” Draco said. “All the compartments are going to be full before we’ve found anywhere to sit.” The pale boy’s trunk floated along obediently at his side just like the cart had at his father’s but Harry had to drag his heavy luggage down the narrow corridor one-handed, Hedwig’s cage grasped awkwardly with the other. He tried to keep up with his impromptu guide while simultaneously staring into every compartment they passed. Most of the other kids there looked pretty normal as far as Harry could tell (although some of them had very odd notions of what passed for ordinary clothes, and one or two were already in their school robes) but a few bore distinct signs of a magical nature.

Suddenly all the students in the corridor still searching for a place to sit were scattered. Harry tripped into his trunk and slammed against the train wall. By the time he’d righted his glasses the source of the disturbance had already vanished past him towards the front of the train. Either it had been two identical red-haired boys or he was seeing double from hitting his head. The one in the lead had been holding something that had looked a lot like a huge, glowing tarantula putting off bright blue sparks. Harry blinked the afterimage from his eyes and looked around. Everyone else struggled back to their feet, some of them shouting curses after the retreating twins and others laughing good-humouredly. Hedwig screeched unhappily. 

Draco’s face was curled into a sneer that held no amusement. “You have to watch yourself,” he said to Harry. “There are some wizards that it’s best _not_ to associate with, and I do believe we’ve just seen two of them.” He brushed invisible dust from his robes and resumed his saunter down the corridor.

Harry hurried to keep up. “What do you mean?” he asked Draco nervously.

“Weasleys,” the other boy replied, his voice thick with derision. “Those two had to be, I’m sure of it. They’re a disgrace to the name of wizards, the whole family.”

Harry gulped. He barely understood what wizards were at this point, but he knew he certainly didn’t want to be a disgrace. His parents had been brilliant ones, after all, and for the first time in his life, Harry Potter was worried about disappointing those two terribly important people he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even figure out how to get onto the platform without help. How was he ever going to live up to Lily and James Potter, magical heroes?

Then something occurred to him, and he paused. He remembered what Draco had said in the robes shop about certain kinds of wizards, and how they shouldn’t be allowed into Hogwarts because of their birth. If _that_ was all he meant by “disgrace,” then Harry wasn’t interested. “So, um, Weasleys,” he said, “are they, um, Muggles’ kids, or…?”

Draco glanced back. “What? Oh, no,” he said, lip curled with disgust. “The Weasleys are Pure-bloods…although you wouldn’t know it to look at them, and how they carry on. Their father’s the big culprit. Works for the Ministry, always trying to bring down other, decent wizards; my father thinks Weasley won’t let anyone live in peace until we’ve all been reduced to the level of Muggles. I mean, honestly…who would want to live like that?” Draco made a noise of horrified disbelief and kept walking.

Harry followed quietly. He certainly didn’t want to go back and stay with his Muggles, that was a fact. But why would the Ministry of Magic want to make wizards live like Muggles? That didn’t seem to make sense, but of course, he didn’t really know anything about the Ministry, or the wizarding world, or magic at all, actually. Draco sounded like he knew what he was talking about. Harry decided to wait until he knew more to ask any questions…but he did know that whatever it was all really about, the last thing he wanted to be was a wizarding disgrace.

“Ah,” said Draco, “this will do.” He led Harry into a compartment where two heavyset, brutish looking boys were already sitting. They weren’t the sort of people whose company Harry would have willingly intruded on; in fact, they reminded him a lot of Dudley and his gang. The reason they had the compartment to themselves, Harry figured, had to be because they had chased out whoever had been sitting there before them. They looked up at the two intruders and Harry braced himself for a pummeling.

But they seemed to know Malfoy. They both jumped up and one of them helped Draco put his floating trunk into the luggage rack over the seats; at an imperious nod from Draco, the other helped Harry wrestle his own heavy luggage up to join the rest of the trunks. Their owls were tucked out of the way at the end of one long bench, Hedwig hunching up and glaring suspiciously at Draco’s larger owl, who ignored her.

The two thickset boys sat down on one side of the compartment and Harry on the other. Draco didn’t sit yet, but swept his arm floridly for introductions.

“This is Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe,” he told Harry. “Our fathers are…associates.” All three boys smirked. Draco paused as if savoring his next words and his expression turned smug. “And this,” he said, gesturing grandly behind him, “is Harry Potter.”

Draco waited a beat until Crabbe and Goyle’s mouths gaped open then dropped onto the seat next to Harry. He sprawled languidly on the wide cushion, grinning. Harry shrugged under the gawking attention. “Uh…hi,” he muttered. He wasn’t sure quite what was going on. It seemed as if Draco was showing off the fact that he knew Harry, as if Harry were someone cool.

Harry had never been cool in his life and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. He’d always been the person no one really paid any attention to for fear of angering Dudley’s gang, the person picked last for anything, the person you didn’t want around unless you needed a punching bag. He had been quite literally the least popular person in the school.

But now here he was in the wizarding world, and Draco Malfoy—who was probably one of the cool kids; he acted like all the ones Harry had ever met and Crabbe and Goyle, at least, seemed to think he was—here was Draco, showing off to his friends because he knew Harry Potter. Because Harry Potter was somebody _cool_.

Harry grinned and slouched back comfortably on the seat. The wizarding world just kept getting better. He watched as houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of excitement. He didn’t know what he was going to—but it already beat what he was leaving behind.

He turned to look back into the compartment and saw that Crabbe and Goyle were still staring at him in blank-faced awe. He glanced to the side where Draco sat, watching him with a smug smirk. Harry grinned back. He still wasn’t comfortable with being idolized for something he couldn’t even remember doing, but this being cool thing was…well, it was pretty cool.

“So,” Draco said, breaking the silence. Crabbe and Goyle’s attention snapped back to the pale boy. Draco was looking at Harry. “Where do you reckon you’ll end up, Potter?” he asked.

“I’m sorry?” said Harry, confused. “Uh…you mean, Hogwarts?”

Draco smirked and Crabbe and Goyle snickered. He held up a hand and they abruptly shut up. “No,” he said, “I mean _within_ Hogwarts. What house do you fancy?”

Harry looked blank.

“Myself, I’m sure I’ll be in Slytherin,” Malfoy drawled when it became apparent that Harry didn’t have anything to say. “My whole family has been for simply ages. It’s the best house, really. Almost everyone of any consequence was in Slytherin.”  Crabbe and Goyle nodded, but whether they were agreeing with Draco’s assessment of the house or affirming their own likelihood of being placed there, Harry couldn’t tell.

“Right,” said Harry. “You said something about that before, in the robe shop? Um, Hagrid…he told me that Volde—sorry—that You-Know-Who, he was in Slytherin?”

All three boys jumped when Harry almost said the dark wizard’s name. Draco wore the same slack-jawed expression that had settled on Crabee and Goyle’s faces. The pale boy slowly nodded, voice muted.

Harry squirmed. “Well I…I’m not sure that I…”

“Don’t want to be in the same house as the Dark Lord?” Draco asked, shaking off his momentary stupor with a twitch.

Harry shook his head.

“Well, I can’t say I blame you,” Draco drawled idly, “but it seems to me you’d only be hurting yourself.  It was years and years ago that the Dark Lord was at Hogwarts, I doubt anyone there even remembers when he was a student.” Draco made a face. “Except probably the headmaster. He’s old enough—too old, really. Probably losing his touch.”

“Who’s that?” Harry asked.

“Dumbledore. Father says he’s the worst thing to ever happen to Hogwarts, and I must say, I agree.” Crabbe and Goyle nodded fervently. Harry was beginning to notice that Draco seemed to always agree with his father, and it looked like Crabbe and Goyle would always agree with Draco.

“Well,” said Harry, not wanting to start a fight with the only familiar faces he could count on finding at Hogwarts, “I don’t know anything about Dumbledore, but Vol—sorry, You-Know-Who, he killed my mum and dad and I reckon he was pretty horrible in general, and I certainly don’t want anything to do with the likes of him.”

 “Have it your way,” Draco said. “Personally, I think that if I were you, I’d want to be sure of doing important things with my life to sort of prove I was worthy of being this great hero everybody’s always going on about, but I suppose you’ve done pretty much the most important thing already, haven’t you? So I guess you needn’t bother reaching for the greatness you could find with Slytherin.” He shrugged. “And it’s not like you’ll disappoint your parents if you end up in Hufflepuff or something, so it’s not a big deal, is it?”

Harry stared at the pale, languid boy, then he glared. “Shows what you know,” he snapped. “Nobody’s going to put _me_ in Hufflepuff, I’ll be just as great as everybody says, just you wait.” Harry sat back, blinking. He couldn’t believe he’d just said that; what was wrong with him? He couldn’t even walk through a magic wall without help, what was he doing talking about greatness? He sounded like the most magnificent prat that had ever lived. He wondered if there was any magic that could let you go back in time and shut yourself up before you said something incredibly stupid.

The other three boys didn’t seem annoyed, though. On the contrary, Draco looked impressed. He nodded respectfully and the other two followed suit without a cue. Goyle’s jaw was hanging open again, or maybe that was Crabbe. Harry wasn’t sure anymore which one of them was which. He thought Goyle was the taller one, but he wasn’t certain. They were pretty much of the same mold, although one of them had a bowl cut and the other’s hair was short and bristly. Whichever one he was, both he and the stout boy sitting next to him seemed to like what Harry had just said. Draco actually clapped a few times. “Very nice!” he said with a grin.

Harry shrugged, still feeling stupid. He hoped that eating your words was a tastier process in the wizarding world than it was for Muggles. If one landed in Slytherin because they were destined to achieve greatness, then Harry was pretty much certain he’d be heading to Hufflepuff. Maybe Hogwarts would have a giant sea monster that could devour him before he reached the school. Then no one would ever learn that their great hero was a big, pratful fraud.

“Ooh,” said Crabbe suddenly, “look.”

He and Goyle were on their feet, jostling to be the first to the door. Harry frowned and looked out the window; the train was still moving, so they certainly weren’t at Hogwarts. They’d left London behind, and now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. He looked back to see what had the two other boys so excited. Draco stood up and sauntered over; Crabbe and Goyle stepped back to let him pass then resumed their shoving match behind him.

Draco beckoned and Harry followed, curiously. He dodged one of Goyle’s fists and sidled past the two boys who looked a lot more resentful about letting Harry through than they had Draco, but they permitted it. Harry peeked over Draco’s shoulder and saw a smiling, dimpled woman with a large cart in the corridor. She looked in at them kindly and asked, “anything off the cart, dears?”

Harry grinned, understanding everyone’s excitement. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of all the Mars Bars he could eat and Draco grinned. “Go on, Potter,” he said. “Got a favorite?” Harry didn’t notice the slight emphasis Draco put on his name, or the way the lady pushing the cart glanced at his forehead, her eyes wide, or the way Draco looked over to make sure she’d heard him. He was too enraptured by the contents of the cart. There were Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.

“Hungry, Potter?” Draco asked with a raised eyebrow. Harry just nodded. In his haste to get away from the Dursleys he hadn’t had any breakfast and now he was starving. He sat down on the wide seat and spread his feast out around him. He barely noticed the others coming back in with their snacks; Crabbe and Goyle each carried handfuls even more copious than Harry’s, but Draco had only bothered with comparatively few treats. Harry guessed that when you grew up in the wizarding world, the amazing concoctions probably seemed less special, although he couldn’t imagine how.

He bit into a pumpkin pasty that was so good he almost swallowed it whole. He might have felt silly about how ravenously he tore into the delectable foods if it weren’t for Crabbe and Goyle doing the same thing right across from him. He couldn’t remember when he’d eaten anything so tasty and quickly unwrapped another. Draco by contrast was languidly licking icing off his fingers as if he had all the time in the world to enjoy his sweets. Harry figured the other boy had never worried about things like scarfing his food down before Dudley could steal the best parts.

“You have any siblings?” Harry asked the other boys, but it came out more like, “oohumpheeblgs?” Draco looked at him in confused amusement; Crabbe and Goyle didn’t pause their own feasting. Harry swallowed his pasty and tried again, managing to approximate English this time.

“No,” said Draco, almost scoffing. The other two boys shook their heads, their mouths full. Draco frowned curiously. “Do you?” he asked dubiously.

Harry shook his head. “But I do have a pretty awful cousin,” he said.

“He on the train?” Goyle asked, peering around as if expecting a cousin to hop out of the cushions.

“No,” snorted Harry, “he’s a Muggle.” He snickered at the idea of Dudley doing magic.

Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. “How appalling,” he muttered.

Harry nodded. “He really is,” he affirmed earnestly. He launched into a story about the Dursleys that had all three boys staring at him with mouths agape, Crabbe frozen in the midst of chewing. Harry did have to stop and explain bits and pieces here and there, especially when he mentioned Muggle schools. Crabbe and Goyle just looked confused but Malfoy grew steadily more and more appalled the longer Harry talked. By the time the stories wound down, Draco was frowning angrily and there was a vaguely reddish tinge to his pale cheeks.

“Dumbledore is mental!” he finally exclaimed. “Dumping you with Muggles? For ten years? What was the man thinking? Father’s right, he’s completely off his rocker!”

“That’s the Headmaster at Hogwarts, right?” Harry asked, although he already knew that name. He was just trying to get Draco to keep talking in hopes of learning more. Besides, watching the pale boy rant on his account made Harry feel a little bit special. It was nice to know that there was someone else who was upset that he’d been trapped with the Dursleys for all those years.  

“Yeah,” Draco snapped back, “and I can’t believe he hasn’t been sacked yet. Of course, father says he’s got the whole Ministry wrapped around his finger, the old coot. Fudge—that’s Cornelius Fudge of course, the Minister, good friend of my father’s—but the poor man can hardly tie his shoes without Dumbledore’s okay. It’s disgusting.” Draco made a face; Harry mirrored it, although his grimace was directed at the way Malfoy had glanced around to make sure the other three boys were all looking at him when he name-dropped Minister Fudge.

“Well, Hagrid seems to think he’s pretty cool,” Harry ventured tentatively.

“Mmm,” Draco replied noncommittally. Crabbe and Goyle looked confused. Harry didn’t bother to enlighten them; they’d meet Hagrid at Hogwarts soon enough and he felt confident—sort of confident, at least—that they would realize how brilliant Hagrid was immediately. Draco would have to change his mind once he actually got to know the gamekeeper, Harry was sure. It had to be impossible to dislike Hagrid. After all, he’d sort of turned Dudley into a pig. Harry grinned and opened his mouth to share that story with the others. He paused, noting Crabbe and Goyle’s physical resemblance to Dudley, and thought better of it.  Maybe to be on the safe side he’d save that tale for sometime when there was just Draco around to listen.  

The compartment door slid open and a round-faced, plump boy with sloppy blond hair peered in. He looked tearful.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

Harry shook his head, but Draco smirked. “A toad?” he asked, gray eyes glittering.

“His name’s Trevor,” the tearful boy said by way of explanation.

“Haven’t seen any toad,” Draco replied languidly, then pulled a mournful expression that Harry could already tell was fake. “Of course, Goyle has been eating an awful lot of chocolate frogs. It’s possible that a toad got into the pile by mistake.” He smiled unpleasantly.

Goyle looked up, bewildered, a half-eaten chocolate frog in his hand. It kicked once, feebly, and Harry gaped; were they _real_ frogs?

The toadless boy blanched. “Trevor,” he moaned.

Crabbe stared at his seatmate in horrified disgust. “You ate a _toad?_ ” he asked.

“Don’t think so,” Goyle replied, looking down at his pile of treats. His eyes were wide and he swallowed hard. Draco laughed and the new boy squeaked and ducked quickly out of the compartment.

“Did you see his face?” Draco asked, still grinning. Then he frowned and rolled his eyes. “Oh for goodness’ sake, Goyle, you didn’t eat any toad,” he snapped. “I’m sure you would have noticed.”

Goyle nodded, looking mostly relieved. He was still eyeing his treats with suspicion, though.

“Are those…real frogs?” Harry asked, partly because he wanted to change the subject away from the tearful boy who’d lost his toad, and partly because he was genuinely curious in the horrified, compelled way that one is when one passes a nasty roadside accident and can’t help looking.

“Don’t be absurd,” said Draco. “They’re just chocolate. Here, have one.” He leaned across the compartment and snatched one from Goyle’s pile. He tossed it to Harry casually, seemingly unaware of Goyle’s dark expression of outrage.

“Um, that’s okay,” Harry said quickly, moving to put it back. He probably had one in his own pile, anyway, if he looked…

“Goyle doesn’t mind,” said Draco, “go ahead.” Goyle nodded stiffly in agreement but he was still scowling at Harry. “You’re not scared to try it, are you, Potter?” Draco asked, grinning. “It’s just candy.”

That settled it. Harry ripped open the wrapping and a very lifelike frog looked up at him. It gave a tremendous hop and Harry yelped. The frog hit the floor and skidded under the bench. Draco rolled back on the seat laughing as Crabbe and Goyle both jumped up and tried to catch the runaway candy.

“It—it jumped,” said Harry, slightly dazed. Crabbe and Goyle were too busy getting in one another’s way to actually retrieve the frog. Draco, chuckling to himself, pulled his legs up onto the bench to keep from getting bumped as the two larger boys rooted around underneath the seats. Harry followed his lead hurriedly.

“Of course it jumped,” said Draco, “that’s what frogs do. These only really have one good leap in them, though, but I suppose sometimes that’s all they need, isn’t it?” He smirked.

Harry shrugged, pondering candy that could run away from you and wondering what other marvels of the wizarding world he’d encounter once he got to Hogwarts. Crabbe at last emerged, triumphantly clutching the escaped frog. He grinned at Goyle, who sulked murderously and flung himself roughly back onto the bench, grumpy in defeat. Then Crabbe looked at the frog and his face fell. It was covered in dust and something that might have at one point been a jellybean was stuck to one of its legs.

Draco and Goyle both laughed and this time Harry joined in. Crabbe just looked so devastated that it was hilarious. He frowned, shrugged, and chucked the frog at Goyle. It broke apart into three or four chocolaty pieces, one of which kicked feebly. Harry laughed harder.

Goyle retaliated by grabbing a bag of jellybeans and firing them at Crabbe like they were mortar rounds. Crabbe yelped and ducked under the barrage and the small candies went everywhere. Draco laughed until a reddish bean hit him on the nose, then he sat up sharply. “Hey!” he yelled, but the other two boys were too busy brawling to hear him. Draco sat back with a sniff and a scowl.

Harry chuckled and picked up a brownish bean from his lap. He figured that if Crabbe and Goyle were throwing the candies everywhere like that, they wouldn’t mind him eating their misfires. He popped it in his mouth and abruptly gagged at the taste. Harry spat the offending bean on the floor and coughed. That was repulsive! It tasted like… “Dirt?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans,” Draco offered helpfully, grinning at Harry’s disgust. “They mean it,” he cautioned, far too late to be helpful.

Harry made a face at him. “Gross,” he said. Draco laughed. He watched the other two boys struggling for a few minutes, mild amusement on his pointed face, then stretched languidly. “Time to get dressed, I think,” he said, standing up. “Now that most of the food’s gone,” he added with a smirk.

Harry grinned. He thought that was a very sensible course of action, especially given the food fight they had just witnessed. Definitely a good idea to have left the robes safely packed until the potential for mess had lessened.

“Crabbe! Goyle!” Draco snapped, and they paused in their pummeling of one another to stare at him. Draco raised an eyebrow. “Time for school robes, don’t you think?” he suggested imperiously.

They blinked at him, then nodded. Goyle reluctantly released his hold on Crabbe’s head and Crabbe visibly fought the urge to give Goyle one more punch in his thick gut. They stepped apart, scowling at one another, then turned around and hauled Draco’s and Harry’s trunks down from the luggage rack overhead.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Thanks.” Goyle grunted and turned around to pull down his own trunk; next to him, Crabbe was doing the same. Harry couldn’t resist sneaking a peek at the contents of Draco’s trunk which was open on the seat next to him. He didn’t see anything miraculous which was disappointing. He’d been hoping for magical contents. He did wonder, though, if someone else had packed Draco’s trunk for him, or if the other boy was just that meticulous. From the haphazard way he threw his other clothes in and shut the lid, Harry figured it was probably the former. That thought made him less embarrassed about his own messy packing, at least.

Crabbe and Goyle returned everyone’s trunks to the luggage racks. Harry tried to help but the larger boys shrugged him off like a gnat. Draco didn’t move at all, just sat fiddling with his hair. Harry tried not to be jealous and resisted the urge to flatten his own; he knew it was a useless battle. Draco’s strangely pale hair by contrast looked like it didn’t know what the words “out of place” even meant. Harry looked down at his rumpled robes and grimaced. He had the feeling he wouldn’t be making much of an impression when he got to the school, at least not the sort he might have hoped for.

Still, it was apparently pretty cool just to be Harry Potter. Draco seemed to think so, at least. Harry would stick close to the pale boy and see how things went. Maybe in the wizarding world people would like him. Everything else was so different from the Muggle world, anyway, and that—that would be a truly miraculous change. He’d always hoped to have friends and now that Dudley wasn’t around to scare people off… Harry grinned. He had a really good feeling about Hogwarts. He just knew he was going to like it there.

Harry leaned against the window and watched the countryside go by. He felt very content and pleasantly full of delicious, magical junk food. It was starting to get dark outside. Harry wondered how much longer they had to go.

He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew he was blinking groggily and a loud voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your baggage on the train, it will be taken to the school separately.”

Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and he tried anxiously to flatten his hair. He looked around and saw Crabbe and Goyle tugging halfheartedly on the last of the Licorice Wands. Draco was curled up on the bench beside Harry and he looked pale and bleary although his hair, Harry noticed grumpily, was still neat. Harry gave up on his own appearance with one last tug at his rumpled robes. At least Aunt Petunia wasn’t here to scold him.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Crabbe and Goyle went out first as if they were clearing the way for Draco and Harry trailed after the blond boy, trying to ignore the way the two larger boys shouldered people aside. It reminded him a little of Dudley’s gang.

Harry shivered in the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: “Firs’ years! Firs’ years over here! All right there, Harry?”

Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

“C’mon, follow me—any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’ years follow me!”

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Someone behind Harry sniffed once or twice.

“Ye’ll get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

There was a loud “Oooooh!”

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black lake. Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry jumped in right away but Draco eyed the cold water with distaste and motioned for Goyle to precede him. Harry wasn’t sure how helpful that had been, because it rocked awfully when the larger boy got in and Draco’s pale face went whiter. He quickly stepped in ahead of Crabbe and grabbed the sides tightly when their final companion joined them.  

“Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid, who had a boat to himself. “Right then—FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who was checking the boats as people climbed out of them.

“Trevor!” cried the boy blissfully, holding out his hands. Draco rolled his eyes but even Crabbe and Goyle were too busy staring around to pay attention. Then they clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, oak front door.

“Everyone here? You there, sill got yer toad?”

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.


	2. The Sorting Hat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This chapter begins with a rather long section transcribed almost exactly from the seventh chapter of the first book, beginning on page 113 of my copy (American paperback). There’s a lot more scattered throughout the rest of this chapter, too. I apologize for including so much direct copy, but I fear that exempting those sections made the story strangely staccato’ed. Please bear with it as best you can._

The door swung open at once. A tall, black-haired witch in emerald green robes stood there. She had a very stern face and Harry’s first thought was that this was not someone to cross.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall,” said Hagrid.

“Thank you, Hagrid. I will take them from here.”

She pulled the door wide. The entrance hall was so big you could have fit the whole of the Dursleys’ house in it. The stone walls were lit with flaming torches like the ones at Gringotts, the ceiling was too high to make out, and a magnificent marble staircase facing them led to the upper floors.

They followed Professor McGonagall across the flagged stone floor. Harry could hear the drone of hundreds of voices from a doorway to the right—the rest of the school must already be here—but Professor McGonagall showed the first years into a small, empty chamber off the hall. They crowded in, standing rather closer together than they would usually have done, peering about nervously.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” said Professor McGonagall. “The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your houses will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free time in your house common room.

“The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”

Her eyes lingered on the students in a way that made Harry think she wasn’t much impressed with what she saw. He nervously tried to flatten his hair.

“I shall return when we are ready for you,” said Professor McGonagall. “Please wait quietly.”

She left the chamber. Harry swallowed.

“How exactly do they sort us into houses?” he asked Draco.

Draco shrugged. “I didn’t ask,” he said carelessly. “Father didn’t say anything about it being difficult, though,” he offered in vague reassurance. “Probably just some sort of examination to see which house you best belong in—not that there’ll be much question in some cases,” he added with a proud smirk.

Harry’s heart sunk. Maybe it wouldn’t be difficult for someone who’d grown up as a wizard, but he didn’t know any magic yet. He hadn’t even made it onto the train platform without help. How was he going to possibly convince anyone that he deserved to be placed in a good house? What if he didn’t even make it into Hufflepuff?

He looked around anxiously and saw that everyone else looked terrified, too. Crabbe and Goyle were shuffling back and forth, shooting one another anxious glances. Goyle had fished something out of his pocket that he was chewing on nervously. Harry thought it looked like a Licorice Wand. His stomach hurt too much to even think about food right now. He wondered how Goyle was managing not to throw up. Even Draco looked paler than usual although he was wearing a cocky smirk. Harry wondered if he was faking or if he really was that confident about making it into Slytherin.

No one was talking much except for one girl a few rows over who had lots of bushy brown hair. She was whispering very fast about all the spells she’d learned and wondering which one she’d need. Harry tried hard not to listen to her. He’d never been more nervous, never, not even when he’d had to take a school report home to the Dursleys saying that he’d somehow turned his teacher’s wig blue. Any second now, Professor McGonaall would come back and lead him to his doom.

Then something happened that made him jump about a foot in the air—several people behind him screamed. Someone grabbed his arm very tightly.

“What the—?”

He gasped. So did the people around him. About twenty ghosts had just streamed through the back wall. Pearly-white and slightly transparent, they glided across the room talking to one another and hardly glancing at the first years. They seemed to be arguing. What looked like a fat little monk was saying: “Forgive and forget, I say, we ought to give him a second change—”

“My dear Friar, haven’t we given Peeves all the chances he deserves? He gives us all a bad name and you know, he’s not really even a ghost—I say, what are you all doing here?”

A ghost wearing a ruff and tights had suddenly noticed the first years.

Nobody answered. Draco peeled his fingers off Harry’s arm. He looked distinctly paler and was now lacking his smirk. Crabbe cracked his knuckles and looked confused. Harry swallowed hard and hoped that none of the transparent figures looked at him.

“New students?” said the Fat Friar, smiling around at them. “About to be Sorted, I suppose?”

A few people nodded mutely.

“Hope to see you in Hufflepuff!” said the Friar. “My old house, you know.”

“Not bloody likely,” muttered Draco, but he looked less confident now.

“Move along now,” said a sharp voice. “The Sorting Ceremony’s about to start.”

Professor McGonagall had returned. One by one, the ghosts floated away through the opposite wall.

“Now, form a line,” Professor McGonagall told the first years, “and follow me.”

Feeling oddly as though his legs had turned to lead, Harry got into line behind Draco, with Crabbe behind him, and they walked out of the chamber, back across the hall, and through a pair of double doors into the Great Hall.

Harry had never even imagined such a strange and splendid place. It was lit by thousands and thousands of candles that were floating in midair over four long tables, where the rest of the students were sitting. These tables were laid with glittering golden plates and goblets. At the top of the hall was another long table were the teachers were sitting. Professor McGonagall led the first years up here, so they came to a halt in a line facing the other students, with the teachers behind them. The hundred of faces staring up at them looked like pale lanterns in the flickering candlelight. Dotted here and there among the students, the ghosts shone misty silver. Mainly to avoid all the staring eyes, Harry looked upward and saw a velvety black ceiling dotted with stars.

The girl that had been muttering earlier whispered, “it’s bewitched to look like the sky outside. I read about it in _Hogwarts, A History_.”

It was hard to believe there was a ceiling there at all, and that the Great Hall didn’t simply open on to the heavens.

Harry quickly looked down again as Professor McGonagall silently placed a four-legged stool in front of the first years. On top of the stool she put a pointed wizard’s hat. This hat was patched and frayed and extremely dirty. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have let it in the house.

 _Maybe they had to try and get a rabbit out of it,_ Harry thought wildly, that seemed the sort of thing—noticing that everyone in the hall was now staring at the hat, he stared at it, too. For a few seconds, there was complete silence. Then the hat twitched. A rip near the brim opened wide like a mouth—and the hat began to sing:

 _“Oh, you may not think I’m pretty,_  
But don’t judge on what you see,  
I’ll eat myself if you can find  
A smarter hat than me.  
You can keep you bowlers black,  
Your top hats sleek and tall,  
For I’m the Hogwarts Sorting Hat  
And I can cap them all.  
There’s nothing hidden in your head  
The Sorting Hat can’t see,  
So try me on and I will tell you  
Where you ought to be.  
You might belong in Gryffindor,  
Where dwell the brave at heart,  
Their daring, nerve, and chivalry  
Set Gryffindors apart;  
You might belong in Hufflepuff,  
Where they are just and loyal,  
Those patient Hufflepuffs are true  
And unafraid of toil;  
Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,  
If you’ve a ready mind,  
Where those of wit and learning,  
Will always find their kind;  
Or perhaps in Slytherin  
You’ll make your real friends,  
Those cunning folk use any means  
To achieve their ends.  
So put me on! Don’t be afraid!  
And don’t get in a flap!  
You’re in safe hands (though I have none)  
For I’m a Thinking Cap!”

The whole hall burst into applause as the hat finished its song. It bowed to each of the four tables and then became quite still again.

“You think they might have cleaned it up a bit first,” Draco muttered, eyeing the shabby old hat balefully. “It’s hardly an impressive sight, is it?”

Harry didn’t answer. He wasn’t about to pick on the hat when it had his fate in its, well, it didn’t have hands, but metaphorically… He swallowed. He didn’t feel particularly cunning at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for people who felt a bit queasy, that would have been the one for him. Harry wondered wildly if looking sick and greenish might inspire the hat to stick him in Slytherin just for the sake of aesthetics. He figured that was the best chance he had.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment’s pause—

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

The table on the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at her. Draco sneered but Harry ignored him. The hat’s song had made Hufflepuff sound a lot better than everyone else had made it out to be so far. Harry didn’t think he’d mind being sorted there, although he was a bit leery of all that talk of toil. He wasn’t sure he was up for that just now. He’d rather go sit down somewhere and maybe have a quick nap.

McGonagall was still calling out names, the second student a girl who’d also gone to Hufflepuff, and the third a boy who trotted off to Ravenclaw. Harry was pretty sure he wouldn’t be going there under any circumstances. He definitely wasn’t wise and his head felt pretty woozy and not at all ready for anything complicated.

“Bulstrode, Millicent,” became the first new Slytherin. The table on the far right cheered her as she walked over to them. She was a large, black-haired girl who looked like she could have intimidated Crabbe and Goyle if she’d put her mind to it.

Harry was starting to feel definitely sick now. He remembered being picked for teams during gym at his old school. He had always been last to be chosen, not because he was no good, but because no one wanted Dudley to think they liked him.

Draco clapped idly when both Crabbe and Goyle were sent to Slytherin; he looked smug again. Harry tried to console himself with the thought that neither of them seemed particularly cunning and they’d got into Slytherin all right but it didn’t help much.

A horrible thought struck Harry, as horrible thoughts always do when you’re very nervous. What if he wasn’t chosen at all? What if he just sat there with the hat over his eyes for ages, until Professor McGonagall jerked it off his head and said there had obviously been a mistake and he’d better get back on the train?

Draco swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!”

The pale boy went to join Crabbe and Goyle, looking pleased with himself while his new house cheered. He gave Harry a casual wave and Harry tried to smile back. He saw Draco lean over to the boy sitting next to him and whisper something and suddenly a bunch of the Slytherins were peering curiously at Harry. He blushed and looked at the floor. He could have killed Malfoy.

“Nott, Theordore,” and “Parkinson, Pansy” also went to the Slytherin table. Harry wondered if there was a limit to how many people could end up in a house. There weren’t many first years left now to be sorted. Then, at last—

“Potter, Harry!”

As Harry stepped forward, whispers suddenly broke out like little hissing fires all over the hall.

“ _Potter_ , did she say?”

“ _The_ Harry Potter?”

The last thing Harry saw before the hat dropped over his eyes was the hall full of people craning to get a good look at him. Next second he was looking at the black inside of the hat. He waited.

“Hmm,” said a small voice in his ear. “Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There’s talent, oh my goodness, yes—and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that’s interesting… So where shall I put you?”

Harry gripped the edges of the stool and thought hopefully, _Maybe Slytherin?_

“Slytherin, eh?” said the small voice. “You could be great, yes, and Slytherin could help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that—are you sure? Not going to try and change your mind later, are you? Well then, it’ll be SLYTHERIN!”

Harry heard the hat shout the last word to the whole hall. He took off the hat and walked shakily to the Slytherin table. He was so relieved to have been chosen and not sent back to the train, he hardly noticed that he was getting the loudest cheer yet. Draco waved him over to a seat next to him that Harry could have sworn had been occupied a minute ago. A number of people leaned over the table and their seatmates to shake Harry’s hand and introduce themselves but he didn’t make note of a single name.

He could see the High Table properly now. At the end farthest away sat Hagrid, who looked almost disappointed. Harry looked away. Hagrid didn’t understand; he had to make his parents proud, and it wasn’t like Voldemort was in school now. And besides, like Ollivander had said, Voldemort had done great things, even if they were terrible. Harry wanted to do great things, too. Good things, of course, but great ones.

For his parents. He had to.

Harry watched safely from his seat as the last four students were sorted. “Thomas, Dean,” went to Gryffindor while “Turpin, Lisa,” became a Ravenclaw and “Weasley, Ronald,” followed Thomas to the Gyrffindor table. The last boy, a tall, elegant fellow with dark skin and a languid saunter, was called up as “Zabini, Blaise.” Like Harry, he was made a Slytherin. Professor McGonagall rolled up her scroll and took the Sorting Hat away.

Harry looked down at his empty gold plate. He had only just realized how hungry he was. The pumpkin pasties seemed ages ago.

In the middle of the High Table an elderly wizard with long, silvery hair and an even longer beard stood up. He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there.

“Welcome!” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!

“Thank you!”

He sat back down. Everybody clapped and cheered, although Harry noticed that several of his fellow Slytherins seemed less than genuine in their applause. Harry didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

“Told you he was mental,” Draco sneered.

So that must have been Dumbledore, then. Harry looked at the old wizard with an appraising eye. Dumbledore had turned to the witch sitting next to him and was chatting politely as he dished food onto his plate from a steaming dish in front of him. He looked like the sort of person Harry would have pictured if he’d been told to imagine someone very wise, but he’d certainly sounded mad.

Then Harry looked down and suddenly he no longer cared whether their Headmaster was sane or not, because there was dinner. Harry’s mouth fell open. The dishes in front of him were now piled with food. He had never seen so many things he liked to eat on one table: roast beef, roast chicken, pork chops and lamb chops, sausages, bacon and steak, boiled potatoes, roast potatoes, fries, Yorkshire pudding, peas, carrots, gravy, ketchup, and, for some strange reason, peppermint humbugs.

The Dursleys had never exactly starved Harry, but he’d never been allowed to eat as much as he liked. Dudley had always taken anything that Harry really wanted, even if it made him sick. Harry piled his plate with a bit of everything except the peppermints and began to eat. It was all delicious.

Harry was feeling very sleepy and content after dessert, and smiled pleasantly at everyone while Dumbledore gave out start of term notices and led them in the school song. By the time they all got to their feet to head off to their houses Harry felt pretty sure that he could have slept in the corridor if only someone would give him a bit of blanket. He yawned ferociously and trailed along after a tall, dark-haired boy who had introduced himself as Prefect something-or-other. The other first years all appeared to be just as tired as he was and even Draco, who was practically bouncing with the excitement of introducing Harry Potter to their new housemates, was beginning to look a bit worn out.

They trudged down one staircase and then another, walking deeper and deeper under the school. For a minute Harry thought that it had all been some terrible joke and they were going to be led back to the boats and sent home but he was too tired to feel more than a faint jolt of fear. It quickly faded as they stumbled through the labyrinthine passages, yawning. This wasn’t the way they’d come from the boats at all. Suddenly the prefect stopped in front of a stretch of bare, damp stone wall.

“Veritaserum,” he said, and a stone door concealed in the wall slid open. Harry’s mouth dropped. He followed the rest of the students into the long, low-ceilinged room and looked around, wide-eyed. It was sort of like a very elegant, elaborate dungeon, the sort you would find in really magnificent castles—which, Harry realized, Hogwarts was. The walls and ceiling were carved straight out of the stone. Round, greenish lamps hung from the ceiling on metal chains and cast a soft glow over the room. Directly facing the doorway a large, elaborately carved mantelpiece arched over a crackling fire. There were several chairs and sofas scattered throughout and interspersed with small tables and cupboards. There was definitely a greenish feel to the room, with the lamps and the dark furniture. All of it looked much nicer than anything Harry had ever been allowed to sit on.

The prefect pointed to one door at the side of the room and told the girls it led to their dormitories; the one in the opposite wall was for the boys. Harry was so tired he trooped off down the stairs immediately and found, slightly surprised, that the other boys all followed him. The first years’ dormitory had six large, four-poster beds with heavy green velvet curtains. Their trunks were already placed at the foot of their beds. Harry wondered vaguely where his owl was, but figured that Hedwig would be all right. He was so tired he barely managed to pull his pajamas on before he fell into bed and dropped straight to sleep without so much as a muttered, “good night.”


	3. The Potions Master

“There, look.”

“Where?”

“Next to the blond kid and the two bruisers.”

“Wearing the glasses?”

“Did you see his face?”

“Did you see his scar?”

Whispers followed Harry from the moment he left his dormitory the next day. His housemates kept coming up and introducing themselves and Harry couldn’t possibly remember that many names at one time. People lining up outside classrooms stood on tiptoe to get a look at him, or doubled back to pass him in the corridors again, staring. Harry wished they wouldn’t, because he was trying to concentrate on finding his way to classes.

Draco, at least, seemed to be reveling vicariously in all the attention Harry was getting, which was good because Harry could duck behind the blond boy and let him talk their way breezily past the gawkers and admirers who seemed determined to dog Harry’s every step. Crabbe and Goyle were certainly proving useful to have around; Harry sometimes didn’t know how he’d have managed to get through the hallways without the larger boys clearing a path. He did feel a bit weird about having them act as some kind of entourage but tried to ignore the feeling in favor of practicality. And if everyone was going to act like he was special anyway…

He was starting to feel left out; everyone else at Hogwarts seemed to know so much more about his history than he did. All Harry had to go on was the quick summary of events that Hagrid had given him back in Diagon Alley. He made a mental note to try to find a book on the war with Voldemort in the library—once he found the library, of course.

Hogwarts was huge and complicated and Harry was sure that parts of it liked to change and move around when you weren’t looking. And as if finding your way around wasn’t difficult enough, there were still the classes themselves to deal with. There was a lot more to magic, as Harry quickly found out, than waving your wand and saying a few funny words.

Harry didn’t know how he was possibly going to keep up with all the homework, and the term had barely started. He was, though, relieved to find out that he wasn’t miles behind everyone else. Lots of people had come from Muggle families and, like him, hadn’t had any idea that they were witches and wizards. There was so much to learn that even people like Draco didn’t have much of a head start.

That didn’t stop him from preening about it, though. Frankly all the boys were making Harry a bit nervous. There wasn’t a Muggle-born among them, and they all seemed to have families that stretched back to the dawn of magic. They were good about not teasing him too much for things he didn't know, but sometimes he’d say something that he thought was obvious and would receive nothing but weird looks and bewildered questions in return. Harry was almost afraid to ask questions of his own for fear of being laughed at.

He still didn’t know his way all around the castle, although at least he wasn’t the only one. Crabbe and Goyle could barely remember the way to their common room and yesterday Harry was certain that he and Draco had found Blaise Zabini trying to convince the wall on the other side of the hallway to open up, although he denied it vehemently. Harry figured it must be important to keep your common room secret, but he thought they could have at least had a landmark or something to indicate what part of the wall you were meant to whisper the password to. Not that that had stopped him from laughing at Blaise, of course.

At breakfast on Friday all the first year Slytherins were excited. They finally had Potions Class, and a double session at that. Potions was taught by Professor Snape who was Head of Slytherin House. Snape was a tall, intimidating wizard in dark robes with lank, greasy black hair and a long, hooked nose. He had very sharp eyes and every time he caught sight of Harry he glared at him. Harry had no idea what he’d done but he was pretty sure that for whatever reason, Snape really disliked him.

He wasn’t exactly looking forward to Potions Class but he didn’t say anything. Harry snuck a glance at the staff table. Snape was talking with Professor Quirrell. Their heads were bent close together and neither teacher looked happy. Snape grabbed Quirrell’s robes and pulled him closer. Harry’s scar gave a twinge and he clapped a hand to his forehead. The pain passed almost as quickly as it had come.

There was definitely something weird about Professor Snape.

Harry leaned over to ask Draco if he knew anything about their Head of House but just then the mail arrived. Harry had gotten used to this by now, but it had given him a bit of a shock on the first morning, when about a hundred owls had suddenly streamed into the Great Hall during breakfast, circling the tables until they saw their owners, and dropping letters and packages onto their laps.

Hedwig hadn’t brought Harry anything so far. She sometimes flew in to nibble his ear and have a bit of toast before going off to sleep in the owlery with the other school owls. This morning, however, she fluttered down between the marmalade and the sugar bowl and dropped a note onto Harry’s plate. Harry tore it open at once. It said, in a very untidy scrawl:

> Dear Harry,
> 
> I know you get Friday afternoons off, so would you like to come and have a cup of tea with me around three? I want to hear all about your first week. Send us an answer back with Hedwig.
> 
> Hagrid

Harry pulled out his quill, scribbled _Yes, please, see you later_ on the back of the note, and sent Hedwig off again. Draco read the letter over his shoulder and gave a loud sniff but didn’t say anything. Harry was glad. He didn’t want to get into an argument with Draco about Hagrid. Especially since Draco’s parents had sent another package of sweets for him from home and Draco had been nice enough to share some of them with Harry. It wasn’t much of a sacrifice on the other boy’s part; there were always more than he could eat in one go, and he usually dolled some out to Crabbe, Goyle, and Harry, but Harry would have felt bad about arguing with him while he was still chewing on his candy.

He thought about asking if Draco wanted to come along to tea so that he could show him that Hagrid really was brilliant, but thought better of it. What if Draco was rude to Hagrid? Better to go alone.

He was glad to have his friends with him in Potions, however.

The lessons took place down in one of the dungeons. It was colder here than up in the main castle, and would have been quite creepy enough without the pickled animals floating in glass jars all around the walls. They had the class with the Gryffindors, who struck Harry as being particularly noisy, although everyone shut up promptly enough when Professor Snape swept in.

Snape, like Flitwick, started the class by taking the roll call, and like Flitwick, he paused at Harry’s name.

“Ah, yes,” he said softly. “Harry Potter. Our new— _celebrity_.” Someone on the Gryffindor side of the room smothered a giggle. Harry couldn’t tell who. Snape finished calling the names and looked up at the class. His eyes were black like Hagrid’s, but they had none of Hagrid’s warmth. They were cold and empty and made one think of dark tunnels.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potions-making,” he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word—like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses…I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

More silence followed this little speech. Harry wasn’t sure what to think about all of that. He looked at Draco who was staring at Snape with bright eyes and a small, eager smile. Harry risked a glance at the desks behind him and saw that Crabbe and Goyle were wearing their usual dull expressions.

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

 _Powdered root of what to an infusion of what?_ Harry glanced at Draco, who nodded in a way that Harry figured was supposed to be helpful but Harry wasn’t a mind reader. One of the Gyrffindor girls’ hands shot into the air. She must be from one of the old wizarding families, like the Malfoys.

“I don’t know, sir,” said Harry.

Snape’s lips curled into a sneer.

“Tut, tut—fame clearly isn’t everything.”

He ignored the girl with her hand up.

“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

The Gryffindor stretched her hand as high as it would go without leaving her seat, but Harry didn’t have the faintest idea what a bezoar was. Draco nodded again, impatiently, as if Harry were deliberately being stupid.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Thought you wouldn’t open a book before coming, eh, Potter?”

Harry forced himself to keep looking straight into those cold eyes. He _had_ looked through his books at the Dursleys’, but did Snape expect him to remember everything in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi?_

Snape was still ignoring the girl’s quivering hand.

As he opened his sneering mouth to speak again, however, the Potions Master was interrupted by Draco Malfoy. “Excuse me, sir,” the blond boy drawled, “but I’m afraid that Potter, well…” Draco glanced at Harry apologetically and shrugged. “When his parents died he got stuck with _Muggles_ ,” he continued almost in a whisper, the expression on his face pitying as if he were embarrassed for Harry. “He doesn’t really know anything about magic yet,” Draco finished, wincing melodramatically.

Snape’s eyebrow had curled up sharply while Malfoy was talking. Harry didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone manage to look as skeptical as Snape did right then. He stared fixedly at Draco but his eyes flicked back once to Harry’s. There was a very appraising look in them. “I see,” Snape said coldly, his expression unfathomable. Harry swallowed.

“I suppose you know the answer, though, don’t you Malfoy?” Snape asked, his icy voice a few degrees warmer than it had been when he’d spoken to Harry. “Perhaps you can help your Housemate out.”

“Of course,” Draco replied, smirking in a terribly superior fashion. “Bezoars are usually found in goats’ stomachs, I believe, and they cure pretty much anything.”

“Correct, Mr. Malfoy,” said Snape, adding mildly, “although their curative powers are generally limited to poisons alone. One point to Slytherin.”

Draco visibly preened, turning around to shoot a smug glance at the Gryffindor girl, who seemed utterly deflated at having not been allowed to answer the question herself. Snape swept back to his desk in a swirl of dark robes and Harry sagged with relief.

“Asphodel and wormwood,” Snape continued, “make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. I suggest you all write this down.” He raised an eyebrow. “It would be…unfortunate, if any of you were to brew something similar by mistake.”

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Harry looked up to see Snape staring at him with a very strange expression on his face. He wondered if Snape was thinking about sprinkling some wormwood and asphodel into his next drink.

Snape put the students into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils. He swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crunch snake fangs, criticizing almost everyone except Draco, whom he seemed to like. He ignored Harry completely even when he was right next to him, telling everyone to look at the perfect way Draco had stewed his horned slugs. It didn’t seem to matter that Harry and Draco were working together; Snape gave Draco all the credit.

Just then clouds of acid green smoke and a loud hissing filled the dungeon. Two of the Gryffindor boys had somehow managed to melt their cauldron into a twisted blob, and their potion was seeping across the stone floor, burning holes in people’s shoes. Within seconds, the whole class was on their stools while one of the boys—the one who couldn’t keep track of his toad, Harry remembered; his name was something Longbottom—who had been drenched in the potion when the cauldron collapsed, moaned in pain as angry red boils sprang up all over his arms and legs.

“Idiot boy!” snarled Snape, clearing the potion away with one wave of his wand. “I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?”

Longbottom whimpered as boils started to pop up all over his nose.

“Take him up to the hospital wing,” Snape spat at the boy he’d been working with. Draco snickered but Harry thought Longbottom looked like he was in too much pain for it to be very funny. Crabbe and Goyle both joined in with a small chuckle. Snape turned around at the noise and glared at Harry but didn’t say anything when he realized it was Draco who had laughed.

They earned another point for Slytherin with their perfect potion, although Snape only mentioned Draco when he awarded it. Personally Harry was terribly proud of their work and wished that Snape had kept Longbottom in class so they could use it. He supposed the hospital was probably fully stocked with all sorts of healing potions that hadn’t been brewed by first years. Still, he would have liked to watch it work.

It was an hour later when they finally left the cold dungeon classroom. The Gryffindors trooped back upstairs but the Slytherins all turned down the long hallway towards their common room. One of the Gryffindors, though, broke away from the group and hurried over to Harry and Draco. It was the girl who had raised her hand when Snape was quizzing Harry. He couldn’t remember her name, though he supposed he must have heard it when she was sorted.

“Hello,” she said, “that was a very impressive potion, I thought, although I must say I was surprised that you didn’t think to crush the bumbleroots before you diced them, there’s a very clear footnote explaining the procedure on page seventy-five.” She was only looking at Draco and she spoke very fast so Harry didn’t have a chance to point out that contrary to how Snape had acted, he had actually helped with that potion, too. She continued, still talking very fast, “I suppose it isn’t necessary, though, or it would have been pointed out on the relevant page for that potion as well. Anyway, I thought you had a very good answer about the bezoar, I can’t understand why it seems like no one else has ever read the textbooks, although you know, they can occasionally be found in other places besides goats’ stomachs, although the results using those kind have been somewhat mixed.”

Harry blinked. Draco raised his eyebrows but he was smiling too, just a little bit, at the praise. “I assume you mean bezoars, not textbooks,” he said.

She flushed slightly. “Oh, well, obviously,” she said. “Anyway, I’m Hermione Granger.”

“Draco Malfoy,” the pale boy replied, shaking her hand. He turned to introduce Harry but Hermione interrupted.

“Yes, I know that,” she said, “Professor Snape said it often enough, didn’t he? And you’re Harry Potter, of course, I’ve read all about you. You’re in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century_.”

“Oh,” said Harry, a bit dazed. At least he knew what books to take out of the library now if he wanted to learn more about Voldemort and the war. He dropped his hand, not realizing that he hadn’t shaken hers yet.

Draco smirked. “Why’d you have to read about him?” he asked. “Everyone knows who Harry Potter is.” He looked a little smug as if he had some claim on Harry’s fame beyond proximity.

“Well of course,” said Hermione, “but I find that one can never know too much, can one? And I really enjoy reading, don’t you?” They both shrugged and Draco started to nod but she didn’t give either boy a chance to reply, continuing with, “besides, my parents are Muggles, so I only just learned about all of these wizarding things, and I wanted to catch up, you see.”

“Oh,” said Draco coldly, and his smile vanished. “Muggles. I see,” he sneered.

Hermione nodded. “Yes, they’re dentists,” she explained.

 “Lovely,” Draco drawled in a voice that was anything but. “If you’ll excuse us, we’ve got other people to be with.” That was news to Harry, if it was true. He couldn’t think of a reason why it wouldn’t be, though, unless maybe Draco just really hated dentists. Harry supposed he couldn’t blame him for that, he didn’t know anyone who really liked going to the dentist and he certainly wasn’t fond of the ordeal himself. Still, that was no reason to take it out on Hermione.

Draco turned his back on her without waiting for a reply and started down the corridor, an unpleasant look on his face. Harry shrugged at the Gryffindor girl, smiled a little sheepishly, and followed his housemate. 

Hermione watched them go with a confused frown. “Oh,” she said, “well all right. Of course. It was nice to meet you.”

Harry gave her a little wave but Draco didn’t even turn around. The pale boy none-too-discreetly wiped his hand on his robes, as if shaking hands with Hermione Granger might have left something sticky behind. Harry felt funny, like he should say something, but he didn’t know what.

He trailed Draco down the twisting hallways back to their common room and cheered himself with the thought of tea with Hagrid. That was sure to brighten his day.

As it turned out, his day was considerably more than just brightened; not only did he leave Hagrid’s stuffed with tea and good cheer, his robes weighed down by inedible rock cakes, but he also had exciting news to share. His mind was humming with thoughts of everything Hagrid had told him, and hadn’t told him, and the mystery of the package from Vault 713.


	4. The Flying Lesson

The other boys were, if anything, even more intrigued by news of the break-in at Gringotts than Harry was. They had grown up their whole lives with the idea of the impregnable goblin bank so hearing that Harry might know more about the crime than the Prophet had published—especially when he told them about the deliciously disturbing security features in place on Vault 713—had all of them abuzz wondering what it could be that had almost been stolen. Even Theodore Nott, who was usually stand-offish, joined in on the animated debate.

Unfortunately as all Harry knew about the mysterious object was a rough size and shape they didn’t have much to go on. They spent most of the week-end in implausible speculation. Their theories got wilder and wilder and finally interest flagged when it became clear that they weren’t getting anywhere.

They tried nosing around but as they didn’t know what they were looking for, they didn’t know where to look. Theodore’s leading question to Professor Binns in History of Magic on Monday derailed the bewildered ghost’s lecture for a pleasurable five minutes but as Binns clearly didn’t have any idea what they were talking about it didn’t do much to help them. An even more obvious hint to Professor Quirrell just resulted in a long, stammered discourse on cursed objects and Dark Magic traps that would have ordinarily been fascinating but as it did nothing to further their knowledge of the contents of Vault 713 all five Slytherins found it pretty tedious.

Eventually it was decided that the best possible source of knowledge had to be Professor Snape, their head of house. The pale, hook-nosed teacher had an uncanny knack for knowing what everyone was up to and could put a stop to hijinks before they started. If anyone in Hogwarts knew what Hagrid’s mysterious package had been, and might be willing to tell them about it, it would be Snape.

They decided that Draco would be the one to ask him after even Blaise had to reluctantly admit that the blond boy was definitely Snape’s favorite student. Harry and the other four boys skulked along the corridor after their next Potions class while Draco lingered to catch Snape alone. They waited a good ten minutes but when Draco finally emerged he was wearing an expression of defeated disgust.

“He told me it was unprofitable to be so nosy about things that weren’t my concern,” Draco complained, scowling darkly in the direction of the Potions class and its teacher. “I think he knew exactly what I was talking about, and I’m sure he knows what it is, but he refused to say anything about it.” The five of them trudged off, spirits low. “Told me to hurry up and get to my next class before he took points for loitering—can you believe that?” Draco asked, outraged.

Harry joined in the general grumbling about Snape that followed the disappointing dead end. He was glad that it had been Draco who’d been picked to bother Snape. Any of the rest of them would have lost points for sure, and Harry probably would have gotten a detention to boot. Snape definitely didn’t like him and try as he might, Harry couldn’t figure out why.

He was quickly distracted from pondering their sulky Potions teacher, however, by a notice pinned to the announcement board in their common room. Flying lessons would be starting September 12th, that Thursday—and Slytherin and Gryffindor would be learning together.

“Perfect,” Blaise sneered, “we get paired with the blood traitors and Mudbloods. That’ll be a grand lesson—how many Muggle-borns are in Gryffindor, anyway? I’ll bet half of them have never even held a broom before.”

“They’ll probably try to use them to sweep something up,” Theodore added with a smirk. The others laughed.

Harry tried to look invisible. So far as he’d known, up until two months ago when Hagrid had brought him his letter, all brooms _did_ do was sweep. He wasn’t looking forward to making a fool of himself in front of his housemates, and he certainly wasn’t looking forward to doing it in front of the Gryffindors, too.

It hadn’t taken long for Harry to learn that while most people might regard Hufflepuffs as a bunch of duffers—although he still didn’t see why that was, frankly—it was Gryffindors who were the real problem. The red-and-gold students were pretty much diametrically opposed to those in green-and-silver and the enmity went beyond mere color theory. Gryffindors and Slytherins were constantly trying to hex each other in the hallways. Harry had spent twenty minutes dangling upside down one day thanks to the efforts of two identical red-haired Gryffindor third years. If it hadn’t been for Flitwick coming along and spying him stuck to the ceiling, he’d probably still be up there now. 

Fortunately the only class they shared with the Gryffindors was Potions and they couldn’t get away with much in front of Snape, who definitely favored his own house, but Harry and the others still had to put up with them in the hallways and at mealtimes. So far the only decent Gryffindor Harry had met was Hermione Granger, and she was an annoying know-it-all. Still, better than the rest of her housemates, who seemed to exist to make Harry’s life miserable. It was almost like Gryffindor had taken it as a personal affront that Harry hadn’t been sorted as one of them.

They were pretty much the last people that Harry wanted around while he was learning to fly, and certainly would be the first to pick on him when he showed that he wasn’t very good at it. He knew he was going to look stupid as soon as he got on a broom.

All the other students were always talking about their own adventures in flight and who they favored in Quidditch. To listen to Draco and Blaise go on, one would have thought that they’d spent half their lives flying around on brooms and baiting Muggle helicopters into near-disaster. Theodore Nott had less interest in Quidditch than anyone Harry had met at Hogwarts, but even he told impressive anecdotes about his time spent on broomsticks. Even Crabbe and Goyle were excited for the lessons; they seemed pretty dim in all their classes, but claimed to excel when it came to flying.

Everyone Harry knew owned a broom—and were all very cross that first years weren’t allowed to bring theirs to school—and they sounded like they were brilliant on them, even the girls. Daphne Greengrass spent half the evening making her friends shriek with laughter over stories about all the trouble she and her little sister got up to on their broomsticks. Apparently wizarding children learned to fly almost as soon as they could walk—maybe sooner.

Harry was certain he was going to be rubbish.

The weather on Thursday was perfect for flying: bright and clear and nicely warm for September. The first year Slytherins were all giddy with excitement and kept checking the magical sky overhead in the Great Hall to make sure it wasn’t suddenly going to rain on them, even though the lessons weren’t until late that afternoon. Harry forced himself to grin like everyone else and was careful not to talk too much; he didn’t want anyone asking him about _his_ experiences on a broom, at which point he would have to confess that he’d never had any.

They were finally told to shut-up by a Prefect when one of Blaise’s reenactments of a narrow escape sent a runaway muffin tumbling into the older boy’s porridge. The first years smothered their giggles and tried to act subdued but they were too excited and kept getting into arguments and scuffles with one another, usually based on whose Quidditch team was better and what impact that would have on their own flying skills. Draco almost got into a fight (with Crabbe and Goyle at his side, of course) at the Gryffindor table, but he somehow managed to squirm out of any punishment when McGonagall arrived to break it up. Harry hadn’t been paying enough attention to tell what they’d been arguing about but he figured it had to be something to do with broomsticks.

The morning dragged on more tediously than ever before; for the first time, Harry couldn’t be bothered to care about how Professor McGonagall had turned her hat into a teacup.

“What is wrong with you?” Draco finally hissed at him after Harry dipped his wand in the ink and tried to cast a charm with his quill.

Harry hesitated and looked around but Professor Flitwick was busy on the other side of the room trying to calm down two of their classmates before they got into a fight: Milicent Bulstrode had accidentally turned half of Pansy Parkinson’s hair pink when she misaimed her attempt at a color-changing charm, and now Pansy was screaming vengeance. The diminutive professor fluttered between the angry girls, stuttering reassurances, but Harry doubted they could hear him over their shrieking.

He turned back to the blond boy who was staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. Harry grimaced and looked at his desk and admitted that he’d never flown on a broom before and he was worried about making a poor showing. He’d grown up with Muggles after all, he reminded the other Slytherin.

Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust like he always did whenever Harry mentioned the Dursleys. “Oh,” he said, “right…guess you wouldn’t have.” He shifted uncomfortably and glanced over his shoulder to make sure Flitwick was still busy. “Well…at least we’ll be paired with Gryffindor,” Draco offered, “so you won’t look so bad compared to them.”

Harry wasn’t cheered by that thought.

Draco shrugged. “Look, Potter, just watch me and do what I’m doing, all right? I’m sure you’ll be fine.” He gave a dismissive wave in the general direction of the windows that faced the sprawling lawn. “They’ll probably make us start out with just the basics, anyway,” he said grumpily.

“You think?” Harry asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. “If Gryffindor’s working with us, I don’t see how we’ll be able to do anything but,” he sneered. “At least half their house has to be worse off than you when it comes to flying.” He grinned smugly. “And,” he said, “ _they_ won’t have _me_ helping them.”

Harry managed a smile. He tried the charm again, using his wand this time. It worked a lot better than the quill had.

 

 

Finally the last regular class of the day ended and at 3:30 that afternoon all the Slytherin first years trooped out of the castle in a giddy cluster. The day was still clear and breezy and the grass rippled under their feet as they marched down the sloping lawns toward a smooth, flat lawn on the opposite side of the grounds to the forbidden forest, whose trees were swaying darkly in the distance.

There were twenty broomsticks on the ground. They didn’t look anything like the broomsticks Harry had drooled over in Diagon Alley; these were old, battered things with bristles that stuck out at all angles. Draco was in the middle of what Harry felt was, for once, an entirely justified rant about shoddy equipment, and how appalled his father would be when he heard about these sorry excuses for brooms, when the Gryffindors finally showed up. They stood facing the Slytherins like the two houses were squaring off for battle.

Their teacher, Madame Hooch, arrived. She had short, gray hair, and yellow eyes like a hawk.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” she barked. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

Harry realized belatedly that most of the Slytherins had deliberately positioned themselves next to the less disreputable broomsticks. He looked down at his own. It wasn’t the worst of the lot but it wasn’t one he’d have chosen, either, if he’d have planned it.

Too late now.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called Madame Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’”

“UP!” everyone shouted.

Harry’s broom jumped into his hand at once, but it was one of the few that did. Draco held his broomstick carelessly, making no attempt to disguise his dissatisfaction with its shabby condition, but Theodore’s just twitched rebelliously despite the weedy boy’s furious scowl. Goyle’s broom didn’t move at all until he kicked it; then it spun sideways into Crabbe’s shin before reluctantly shuddering upward into the other boy’s outstretched hand. Longbottom, the Gryffindor with the toad and the penchant for destroying his potions, had even less luck with his broom, which lay stubbornly on the ground until Madame Hooch walked over to help him. Even Hermione Granger, who seemed to know everything, had trouble making her broom cooperate.

Harry felt marginally better about his chances.

Madame Hooch then showed them how to mount their brooms without sliding off the end, and walked up and down the rows correcting their grips. Draco’s face was furious when she told him he’d been doing it wrong for years. Blaise smirked mercilessly until she said the same thing to him. Harry grinned and was careful not to look at either boy while they simmered.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” said Madame Hooch. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle—three—two—”

But Longbottom pushed off hard before the whistle had touched Madame Hooch’s lips.

“Come back, boy!” she shouted, but he was rising straight up like a cork shot out of a bottle—twelve feet—twenty feet. Harry saw his scared white face look down at the ground falling away, saw him gasp, slip sideways off the broom and—

WHAM—a thud and a nasty crack and Longbottom lay facedown on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, and started to drift lazily toward the forbidden forest and out of sight.

Madame Hooch was bending over the Gryffindor, her face as white as his.

“Broken wrist,” Harry heard her mutter. “Come on, boy—it’s all right, up you get.”

She turned to the rest of the class.

“None of you is to move while I take this boy to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch.’ Come on, dear.”

Longbottom, his face tear-streaked, clutching his wrist, hobbled off with Madame Hooch, who had her arm around him.

No sooner were they out of earshot than Draco burst into laughter.

“Did you see his face, the great lump?”

The rest of their house joined in, but Harry frowned. He hadn’t thought it was funny at all.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” snapped a pretty Gryffindor girl with a long, dark braid. Harry thought her name was Padma, or something like that.

“Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?” said Pansy. “Never thought _you’d_ like fat little crybabies, Parvati.”

“Look!” said Draco, darting forward and snatching something out of the grass. “It’s that stupid thing Longbottom’s gran sent him.”

It was a glass ball the size of a large marble that seemed to be full of white smoke. It glittered in the sun as he held it up.

Harry shifted uncomfortably but before he could decide whether or not to say anything a Gryffindor boy with red hair spoke up. “Hand that over, Malfoy,” he said pompously. His name was Ron Weasley and he was part of the family that Draco had called a disgrace to the wizarding world.

“Don’t think I will,” Draco breezily replied. He tossed the ball up and down a few times.

Weasley frowned and clenched his hands into fists but Crabbe and Goyle had shuffled over to stand behind Draco and no one sane would start a fight with the two of them. The two other Gryffindor boys were exchanging concerned looks behind Weasley and Harry crossed his fingers, hoping they wouldn’t decide to get involved. He didn’t want to know what Madame Hooch would do if she came back to find the class brawling.

Parvati Patil stepped out in front of the boys. She tossed her hair determinedly but when she stretched out her hand it shook slightly. “I’ll take that,” she said. She seemed to be making a ferocious effort to keep her eyes on Draco and ignore the two large boys flanking him.

“Why?” Draco asked, “gonna give it back to your boyfriend before he forgets you?” He laughed and most of Slytherin joined in. Patil flushed angrily.

“Why don’t you just give it back?” Harry suggested quietly. Everyone stopped talking to stare at him. Crabbe and Goyle were gaping at him in bewildered betrayal. Blaise muttered something that Harry couldn’t make out.

Draco’s gray eyes were cold. “Excuse me?” he said.

Harry shrugged. “Whatever it is, I’m sure your dad would buy you one if you asked him—or wouldn’t he?” Harry was hoping that Draco’s ego and his habit of constantly bragging about his rich father and how Lucius Malfoy would get him this, or that, or ten of those if he really wanted one, would come into play and end the fight before it got started. He figured that Draco would never admit that there was something his father wouldn’t get or do for him, whether it was true or not.

Draco flushed. “I don’t need a stupid Remembrall,” he snapped, “I’m not some great lump like Longbottom who can’t even remember which end of a broomstick goes in front.” He flung the glass orb at Patil who yelped but caught it. “Here,” Draco snarled, “maybe you can get your blithering idiot of a boyfriend to remember your name if you write it on that.”

“He’s _not_ my—oh, forget it!” Patil snapped, face red. She stuffed the Remembrall in her pocket and turned her back on the Slytherins, shoving her way through the Gryffindor boys to go sulk with her friends. Hermione Granger scowled ferociously at everyone as if they were going to ruin her spotless academic record with all their quarreling.

“Pfft,” Draco muttered, “what a stupid toy, anyway. Only morons use the bloody things…” He walked off, kicking grumpily at a rock as if the rest of them were all beneath his notice. Crabbe and Goyle, realizing they weren’t going to get to punch anyone, settled for cracking their knuckles and glowering threateningly at the Gryffindor boys. The three of them scowled right back, clenching fists and clearing throats.

Harry turned his back on all of it and set about trying to pick the broken twigs off his broom. On the upside, he hadn’t been the worst flyer of the bunch but on the downside, he still hadn’t gotten off the ground. Besides that he’d almost gotten into a fight with his best friend and narrowly avoided getting dragged into a brawl.

All in all it had been a less than successful start to his first flying lesson.

When Madame Hooch returned Draco didn’t speak to Harry but pointedly stood next to Theodore Nott instead, Crabbe and Goyle on either side of the skinnier boys like oversized bookends. Harry looked at the other Slytherins but the girls all scowled at him and flounced away; Blaise Zabini smirked and made a rude gesture when Madame Hooch was looking the other way. Not expecting much, Harry glanced over at the Gryffindors: they were all glaring at him, too. He sighed, swung a leg over his broom, and hoped he wasn’t going to fall off and follow Longbottom to the hospital wing.

“Right,” said Madame Hooch, looking more flustered this time around, “everyone mount your brooms. Now, when I count to three—and not before then—I will blow my whistle and you will kick off the ground, rise _just a few feet_ , and then come straight back down. Everyone ready? On my mark, then. Three—two—one—TWEET!”

The whistle sounded and Harry pushed off from the ground like he was trying to leap up onto the roof of the school to get away from Dudley. He had his eyes squeezed tight shut and his stomach got left behind somewhere but he was up and the ground was gone and he was _hovering in midair_.

Harry slowly opened one eye, then the other. He looked down a good six or seven feet to the ground. He grinned. He couldn’t help it, he pulled up on the broomstick and it rose higher, higher—the wind rustled his hair and his robes streamed out behind him and he was _flying!_

“Mr. Potter!” Madame Hooch yelled, “back down here, boy!”

Harry started and his hands slipped off the broomstick. He wobbled in midair but managed to stay upright. Feeling as though he was turning his back on the greatest treat of his life, Harry reluctantly tipped his broom downwards and sank back to the ground. He stumbled just a bit on landing but didn’t stop grinning. Flying was _fantastic_.

“Sorry, Madame Hooch,” he said, even though he knew his broad grin didn’t look very repentant. Madame Hooch sniffed but didn’t scold him further.

She turned away to counsel some of the students who were having a harder time getting up in the air. From the look of things, Hermione Granger hadn’t even managed to float off the ground. Her face was screwed up in a ferocious frown and she was concentrating so hard that Harry half-expected steam to start coming out her ears any minute.

Harry grinned at everyone, feeling as though nothing could ever make him unhappy again.

Then his heart plummeted when he saw Draco in quiet conversation with Crabbe and Goyle, their backs turned. Why had he stuck up for Longbottom? They weren’t even friends, they’d barely even spoken together in class. It was just that Draco had reminded him quite suddenly of Dudley and Harry hadn’t known what to do.

He wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

Then Draco looked over and said coolly, “not bad, Potter,” which wasn’t exactly brimming with good cheer but it was at least speaking to him, so maybe that would be all right.

Harry decided to head back down to Hagrid’s again tomorrow. It would be Friday, which meant he had the afternoon free. Maybe he could convince the gamekeeper to drop a few hints about the mysterious package from Vault 713. If Harry had more news about the fascinating, infuriating object, he felt sure that the others would quickly forget that they were annoyed with him.

Madame Hooch allowed the better fliers—a group comprised of Harry, Draco, Blaise, Daphne, and a handful of Gryffindors, including the red-headed Weasley who had almost started the fight earlier—to return to the air for a bit of almost-proper flying, although she insisted that they stay low to the ground and not go too fast.

All Harry wanted to do was let loose and speed off over the forest as fast as he could but he contented himself with a few loop-the-loops. Draco looked impressed and when they landed again and trooped back up to the castle for dinner he walked next to Harry and spoke to him without any mention of the Remembrall, although as they separated from the Gryffindors he did shout for Patil to give Longbottom a kiss from all of them in Slytherin.

This time, Harry didn’t say anything.

 

 

Just past four o’clock on Friday, Harry went back down to Hagrid’s. He’d sent a letter with Hedwig that morning but hadn’t gotten any answer. He hoped Hagrid would be there and wouldn’t be too busy to see him. Last time he’d seemed a bit nervous of Harry and kept asking him questions about his house, and how he was liking it, and _hmm_ ing a lot at Harry’s answers.

It was almost like he was disappointed that Harry was in Slytherin. Hagrid just didn’t understand; _he_ didn’t have dead parents counting on him to be great and live up to all the things people said about him. Harry did, and he would.

But maybe if Hagrid was determined to be tight-lipped Harry could try some sort of sob story about how he was really regretting not being sorted somewhere else and couldn’t Hagrid just tell him a teensy little bit about his super secret mission for Dumbledore, please? It would really make him feel better, and that sort of thing.

Harry knocked on the door and tried to think up some really good, tear-jerking details of loneliness and ostracization while he waited for Hagrid to answer. He had plenty of material from his days at school with Dudley. He heard Fang barking inside but no sounds of Hagrid. Harry walked out back of the hut and checked the garden but he wasn’t there, either.

Maybe he hadn’t gotten Harry’s note.

Harry wandered out across the wide lawns, thinking that hopefully Hagrid would be somewhere nearby. He thought it was terribly pleasant, walking across the large, park-like expanses of Hogwarts with nowhere he needed to be and no one he needed to report to. It was more freedom than Harry had ever really had in his life and giddiness welled up in his stomach and made him feel very light.

The only thing that could have made it better was if he’d been on a broom instead of walking.

Harry found himself grinning automatically at the thought of flying. He couldn’t believe he’d been afraid of failing, it was almost more natural than breathing. He couldn’t wait for their next lesson; if only first years had been allowed their own brooms he’d have been up in the air right now…

Harry’s train of thought was halted by the sudden appearance of a distant figure. Harry jogged towards it, thinking it had to be Hagrid. As he got closer, though, he realized that it was too short and too skinny to be the burly, oversized gamekeeper.

Harry’s footsteps slowed. Students were allowed on the grounds, but he was awfully close to the forest, and he didn’t want anyone thinking he’d been trying to sneak in there and take points away from Slytherin because of it. Harry stopped, thought a minute, and decided to walk back to Hagrid’s. That way even if whoever was out there came to investigate Harry could quite legitimately claim that he was just trying to pay a visit to a friend and waiting for him to get back.

He turned around and walked quickly in the other direction back to the wooden hut, certain that he was imagining the feeling of sharp, piercing eyes fixed on the back of his neck.

When Harry got close Fang started barking again, jumping around in excitement inside the hut. The large boarhound slammed into the door a few times but though the house rattled, he didn’t seem to make any headway in his plans to get outside and lick Harry into a drool-drenched stupor.

Harry sat down on the stool outside the front door and closed his eyes, basking in the late afternoon sunshine. Fang eventually quieted with a disappointed whimper. He’d just wait until Hagrid came back, he decided. Maybe even have a nap. It was a lovely day for it, not too cold but with just a hint of bite in the air…

Suddenly a shadow fell on Harry’s face and he sat up quickly.

Harry gaped at the unpleasant sight in front of him. Tall, pale, dressed in long black robes with equally dark hair hanging limply around a hook-nosed, sallow face, it was Snape. The Potions Master was scowling down at Harry with a horrible look of disgust on his face. His piercing black eyes were fixed tightly on Harry’s green ones as if Snape could probe Harry’s innermost secrets with nothing but a glare.

Harry swallowed. “Good afternoon, professor,” he hazarded.

Snape raised a chilly eyebrow. “What are you doing out here, Potter?” he asked.

“Um. Waiting for Hagrid?”

Snape’s dark eyes bored into Harry’s with such intensity that the boy found it very difficult to look away.

“I think you’re getting into things that don’t concern you,” Snape said softly. “You should return to the castle. For your own sake,” he added ominously, his voice a sibilant whisper.

“I’m not doing anything wrong,” Harry protested quickly.

“Aren’t you?” Snape asked.

Harry’s mouth went dry. He wasn’t, really—all right, he’d been planning to snoop, maybe even tell a little fib to try and get Hagrid to give something away, but he wasn’t breaking any school rules, or doing anything bad, really. He was just being… _curious_. That was all.

He opened his mouth to stammer a reply, but never got the chance; a loud, boisterous voice interrupted them both and Snape wheeled around with a swirl of dark robes to stare at the newcomer.

“What’s all this, then?” said Hagrid, ambling up to his hut with something that looked like a massive worm dangling over his shoulder. There was a long trail of very thick slime running all down the side of Hagrid’s coat and drizzled over the ground behind him. At first Harry thought the worm was dead but when Hagrid stopped in front of Snape and Harry it gave a shivery sort of twitch. Harry clapped a hand to his mouth and fought the urge to be ill. It looked like a huge, boneless brown finger covered in buckets of snot.

“Didn’t know I was goin’ ter have company, or I’d ha’ put the kettle on,” Hagrid said, chortling.

Snape didn’t seem to notice the huge worm at all. “Hagrid,” he said frostily.

Hagrid nodded in a friendly, confused manner. “Snape,” he said, “Harry. Afternoon to yeh both. Anythin’ I can help yeh with?”

“The boy claims to be waiting for you,” Snape said, his tone radiating disbelief.

“I sent you an owl this morning…” Harry began.

Hagrid clapped a slimy hand to his forehead. “Blimey, Harry!” he exclaimed. “I clear forgot abou’ that!”

Snape’s expression thinned. Harry grinned in relief. Hagrid’s face fell.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean ter miss yeh like this, only I been that worried ‘bout all this nonsense in the forest…” He looked miserable, especially with the giant worm still oozing great puddles of slime down his side.

“That’s okay,” Harry hurried to reassure him, “I wasn’t waiting long, and I didn’t know for sure you’d gotten the note anyway, and—”

“I think,” Snape cut him off with a voice so cold it made Harry shiver, “that Mr. Potter would do well to return to the school. Goodness only knows what kind of trouble,”—his eyes fastened on Harry with an unpleasant glitter—“he might find himself embroiled in if left out here to his own devices.”

“Ah, don’ worry abou’ that,” Hagrid said, waving a massive hand as if to shoo Snape’s concerns away. “I’ll be out here with him, we won’t get up ter nothin’—will we, Harry?” He gave a great unsubtle wink. Harry grinned.

“All the same,” Snape said sourly, “as his head of house—”

“Oh, go on, Severus, let the kid have a bit o’ fun!” Hagrid beamed at Harry who returned the gleeful expression threefold. Watching Snape curl up in thwarted fury was delightful, even if part of Harry knew he would only pay for it later.

“As you wish it, then,” Snape sneered quietly. His dark eyes flashed to Harry, the expression in them unreadable. “But Potter, I will expect you back in the castle in time for dinner. I shan’t have Slytherins wandering the hallways at all hours trying to beg food from the kitchens because they were too negligent to feed themselves at the proper time.”

Harry nodded in what he hoped looked like eager compliance. He knew Snape didn’t care whether he was hungry or not; when Harry had unfortunately been paired with Longbottom in Potions class earlier that week Snape had made them both stay after an hour until they managed to turn in a passable elixir. Harry had barely made it to the very end of the night’s meal. Snape was just looking for an excuse to make him go back to the castle.

Snape gave Harry one last, unfathomable glower, nodded curtly to Hagrid, and swept away.

“So, what’s that?” Harry asked Hagrid, pointing to the disgusting creature draped limply over his shoulder.

“Oh, this?” said Hagrid, beaming fondly at the great, slimy thing. “That’s a flobberworm,” he said. “Only someone’s gone and put an engorgement charm on the poor blighter, I gotta take care o’ it if yeh don’t mind…”

Harry followed Hagrid out back into his garden. The giant of a man put the enlarged worm down with a wet, squelching flop and stumped into his hut. Fang came bounding out the door, ignoring Hagrid’s shouts of, “ _back_ , Fang— _back!_ ” The large boarhound barreled right to Harry, knocked him over, and began licking his face like he hadn’t seen him in months. Harry laughed and tried to keep his mouth shut.

Hagrid hauled the dog off of him but as soon as he let go of his collar Fang went right back to nuzzling Harry. He stayed sitting on the ground and rubbing Fang’s belly while Hagrid tended to the flobberworm. Harry tried not to watch because the unnaturally large worm squirmed in a really unpleasant fashion. Nothing that boneless and slimy should ever be that big and no matter how large, nothing alive should ever produce the copious, thick gouts of slime that rolled off the flobberwom and pooled in Hagrid’s pumpkin patch. Harry gagged.

“So Hagrid,” he asked, carefully looking the other way, “have they caught the fellow that broke into Gringotts yet?”

“What? Oh, no,” Hagrid said distractedly. There was a very sticky popping sound and Harry swallowed. He fastened his eyes on the distant towers of Hogwarts and resolved not to turn around unless something wet and slimy actually crawled over and touched him. Then he shuddered and wished he hadn’t thought of that.

“I’ve just been thinking,” Harry said, “how strange it is that someone should try and steal something from Gringotts. I mean, didn’t you tell me they had dragons as guards?”

“That’s what everyone says,” said Hagrid. He sounded wistful. “Never seen one, though,” he muttered. “And don’ think I haven’t asked,” he added. Harry thought he sounded cross.

“I don’t know,” said Harry, “I bet that’s just a rumor the Goblins spread around.”

“What?” said Hagrid. “Why would they do that?” There was another wet, popping sound. Harry closed his eyes.

“Well,” he said, “if there really _were_ dragons there, then why would Dumbledore ever want something moved somewhere else? It’s not like it could be safer than with a dragon guarding it, right? I mean, dragons, they sound pretty cool…”

Privately Harry thought that dragons sounded a lot cooler when they were far away, abstract things. He would never want to meet one. But he remembered Hagrid saying that owning a dragon was his fondest wish and figured that if any subject would make the gamekeeper extra talkative, it would be that one.

“That they are,” said Hagrid cheerfully. “Bloody brilliant, and tha’s the truth. You know them Weasley kids?” he asked. Harry grimaced and nodded. They were all Gryffindors, red-haired, and basically committed to making Slytherins’ lives a misery. Harry wasn’t actually sure how many of them there were. Someone had told him that there was only one set of twins, but he figured it was more like quintuplets the way they popped up all over the castle when you least expected it.

“Well,” Hagrid continued, oblivious to Harry’s expression since he was determinedly facing away from the wet, slimy ministrations going on behind him, “their older brother, Charlie, he’s off studyin’ dragons somewhere. Think it’s Romania, actually.”

“That sounds like fun,” Harry lied.

“Yeah,” said Hagrid with a happy sigh.

“Well, I can’t think of anything that would be so important that you’d need dragons to guard it,” Harry said casually, “but I guess if it was so special, I can’t imagine why you’d ever take it away from the dragons…unless you needed to use it.”

Hagrid chuckled. “Dumbledore, use that thing?” he asked. “Well, if anyone’d have the right to, I guess it’d be Dumbledore, but I don’ see it, meself.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Harry. He crossed his fingers.

“Nah,” said Hagrid, “he’s just lookin’ after it fer a friend.”

“Ah,” said Harry. His heart was beating very fast now.

“And don’ you worry,” he told Harry, “it’s just as protected as it was at Gringotts, you mark my word. You don’ see anyone breakin’ in ter here to get at it, now do yeh?” Hagrid chortled to himself as if imagining the debacle. “Not like it’d do ‘em much good, not with all the different enchantments and—”

He suddenly went very quiet. “Here now,” he said gruffly, “yeh just forget all that, all right? That’s not fer the likes of students to be knowin’ about.”

Harry shook his head, not bothering to hide his broad grin. “Oh no,” he said brightly, “don’t worry about that. I won’t tell a soul.”

Hagrid grunted and returned to work on the flobberworm. Harry asked a few questions about the ensorcelled creature, resisting the urge to look when Hagrid tried to point out the signs of magical tampering it exhibited. He quickly made his excuses, for once thankful for Snape’s crankiness.

He didn’t think that after the flobberworm he was going to eat much, but he couldn’t wait to get back up to the castle and tell his friends everything he’d learned.


	5. The Third Floor

As peace offerings went, it was a good one. Pondering the mysterious object kept them busy for the rest of the evening. They still didn’t know many concrete details, but Hagrid had dropped enough hints to keep them all determinedly guessing.

“I bet it’s why we can’t go in the third-floor corridor,” Draco said at last. The others nodded, Crabbe and Goyle a heartbeat behind everyone else. Harry had already been thinking much the same thing but he hadn’t wanted to suggest it in case the others thought it sounded silly. 

“Obviously,” sneered Blaise Zabini, trying to act like he’d come to the same conclusion ages ago.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Well, that means it’s not actually dangerous up there at all,” he said. “They just made up some story because they don’t want us nosing around and finding out what’s hidden there.”

Zabini, who’d been sprawled languidly across his bed, sat up suddenly. “Then we should,” he said.

Draco grinned. “Precisely what I was thinking.” He looked at Harry. “You in, Potter?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Absolutely,” he said. “But how are we going to get there past Filch?”

Argus Filch, the caretaker, and his cat, Mrs. Norris, were the bane of every student’s existence. Harry had no desire to be dragged down to detention by the nasty fellow and his horrible feline.

“We’ll go in between classes on Monday,” Draco suggested. “We can just say we got lost if anyone spots us.”

“Count me out,” said Theodore. “If you all want to spend the next fortnight slaving away for Filch, you go ahead.” He rolled over and opened his Potions textbook, pointedly ignoring the rest of them.

Draco shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he drawled. He met Harry’s eyes and rolled his at Nott, mouthing, “swot.” Harry snickered into his sleeve.

“We should go before Potions,” Blaise suggested, perhaps inspired by Theodore’s choice of reading material. “If we’re late getting to class, Snape probably won’t be too mad.”

“He certainly won’t take points from us,” Draco said, smirking.

It was true that Snape rarely took points away from his own house, for which every Slytherin was regularly grateful, but Harry’s heart dropped nonetheless. Snape was the last teacher he wanted to mess with. Harry was half-convinced that Snape could look right through Harry’s soul and out the other side. He also had yet to offer Harry a word of praise or even grudging acceptance, even when Harry turned in perfectly decent work. Whenever they were paired up in class, Harry usually worked with Draco, and every time Snape completely ignored Harry’s contribution although he was always quick to praise Malfoy for their joint work.

Harry figured that if there was any Slytherin that wouldn’t be able to get away with coming to class late without losing points for it, he’d be it. The others always ignored him when he complained about Snape not liking him, though, so he said nothing. At least if he came in with Draco and Blaise then Snape couldn’t punish just him—right?

They had Potions right after History of Magic. The nervous excitement kept Harry awake through Binns’s interminable lecture and the small part of his brain that wasn’t consumed by thoughts of what they might find, and the horrible things that might happen to them, noted vaguely that the Giant Wars might actually be interesting if he heard someone else talk about them.

He, Draco, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle had all brought their Potions supplies with them. Nott pointedly sat on the other side of the room, distancing himself from all of them. Harry hoped no one noticed their bulging bags. Ordinarily they’d have taken advantage of the break between this class and the next to go and fetch their things—especially with Potions being so near to their common room—rather than lugging everything along to History of Magic, but today they didn’t want to waste the time.

They had more important things to do.

The five of them sauntered up to the third floor and tried to look nonchalant. No one stopped them or asked where they were going or pointed out that they were meant to be heading down the stairs right now, not up. Harry’s palms were sweaty and he kept wiping them on his robes but it didn’t help.

When they reached the corridor that led to the forbidden door Crabbe and Goyle stopped. They were to act as look-outs and warn the others in case anyone came along. Draco cast a leg-locker curse on Goyle; if the two boys were spotted, they would say they didn’t know the counter curse to get rid of it and that’s why they were dawdling about. Harry was pretty sure that wasn’t a lie. Neither one of them had shown much of a gift when it came to casting spells, or anything else that required much more than brute strength, actually.

If they were asked who had cast the curse, they would just say it had been a Gryffindor, but they hadn’t been able to tell which one. No one would bother to question that story any more closely, they all figured. Gryffindors and Slytherins were constantly hexing one another in the halls. Even Crabbe and Goyle could manage to make that much sound plausible.

Draco, Blaise, and Harry continued on. Harry found his legs were moving slower the closer he got to the door, although the other two sped up eagerly. He forced himself to follow by reminding himself of all the incredible things that might be hiding behind that door.

He needn’t have worried, though; when they got to it they found that it was solidly locked. Blaise said an incredibly foul word that made both Harry and Draco eye the taller boy with impressed surprise. He tugged on the lock but it didn’t budge. Draco tried one of the spells from their Charms book but they hadn’t gotten that far in Flitwick’s class yet and none of them knew the appropriate wand movement to go along with it.

The spell did nothing. Draco scowled.

Harry thought he heard a noise from the other side of the door and pressed his ear to the wood. The muffled sound did not repeat itself.

Then they all heard a noise that made them jump: _Peeves_.

“Ickle firsties!” the poltergeist exclaimed gleefully. “What are you doing, firsties, trying to see secrets, are you?” he asked with a wicked grin.

“N-no,” Harry stammered, “we’re just lost.”

“Liar, liar, trousers afire,” Peeves sang. Harry, knowing the poltergeist’s wicked sense of humor, quickly looked down to make sure that he wasn’t actually burning.

“It’s none of your business what we’re doing,” Draco sneered, which was a mistake.

“Trying to go where you’re not allowed, that’s what you’re doing,” Peeves said, loudly. “STUDENTS AT THE DOOR,” he shouted. “STUDENTS BREAKING INTO THE THIRD FLOOR!”

“No,” Harry yelled, “we’re not—we haven’t even got the door open, see—”

But it was too late. Peeves swooped off, shouting, and the three Slytherins stared at each other. It was only a matter of time before someone heard the ghost and came to investigate and odds were that someone would be Filch. They all started to run at the same time, pelting off down the corridor. They flew past a very startled Crabbe and Goyle, the latter of whom still had his legs stuck together. The thickset boys gaped, then tried to follow, Goyle hopping and Crabbe half dragging him along. “Finite,” Harry shouted, turning around to cast the counter-curse. Goyle stumbled but quickly regained his feet, scrambling to catch up with the rest of them.

The boys sprinted through the hallway and clattered down the main staircase like they were being chased by a hundred Peeveses. They had to get out of there before Filch caught them or it would be detention for all of them, or worse. By the time they skidded into the Potions classroom they were all red-faced and panting. Bent double and dripping sweat, Blaise didn’t look nearly as elegant as he usually did. Even the normally impeccably neat Draco was disheveled, his pale hair dangling limply in his face. Harry swiped his own sweaty fringe out of his eyes.

“Sorry, professor,” Blaise panted. “Got lost—staircase moved—sorry we’re late,” he gasped.

Snape raised an icy eyebrow. Harry looked away from the Potions Master’s dark, piercing eyes. He felt like Snape knew exactly what they’d been doing but he didn’t ask them anything.

“I see,” he said coldly, his sharp gaze flicking between them all. His eyes lingered on Harry the longest and Harry swallowed, certain he was about to be docked points or set a detention or something worse. “You had best find your seats promptly,” Snape said at last. “The lesson has already begun and I’ve no patience for repeating myself.”

He did, though, quickly summarizing what they had missed; a few Gryffindors muttered about unfair treatment. “They didn’t even lose points, can you believe it?” Weasley grumbled loudly. He ducked his head when Snape looked at him and quickly pretended to be engrossed in his notes. Draco smirked. Harry tried to return the triumphant expression but he still felt limp and watery from their narrow escape. He put his own head down and focused on copying Snape’s abbreviated lecture. Now was definitely not a good day to risk turning in an unacceptable potion.

Harry couldn’t wait for class to end; for once, he wasn’t cross about Snape giving all the credit for their potion to Draco. Harry had been too flustered and distracted to pay proper attention to what he was doing and if it hadn’t been for Draco stopping him just in time from adding the wrong halves of the beetles to their cauldron, they probably would have ended up with something even more embarrassing than the sputtering, smoking mess in front of Longbottom.

Harry fled the classroom with relief. All he wanted to do was get back to the common room and collapse. He had no desire to go anywhere near the third floor corridor again. One brush with disaster was enough for him.

Blaise flung his bag down with a grimace and collapsed into one of the chairs in front of the fire. “Ugh!” he said expressively, which Harry felt summed up their experience pretty much perfectly. “Now they’ve got the bloody poltergeist on guard duty…I don’t need that kind of grief, forget this…”

“Yeah,” muttered Harry. He dangled limply over the arm of his chair, too drained to move.

For once Crabbe and Goyle didn’t wait for a cue from Draco but quickly nodded their own enthusiastic agreement. They still looked red-faced and sweaty and Goyle’s lank hair was plastered to his forehead.

Sprinting all the way from the third floor to the dungeons hadn’t been Harry’s idea of a good time, especially when he’d been convinced the whole way that any second now Filch was going to pop out and throw them all in detention for life. It was enough to make anyone rethink their curiosity about what was hidden up there.

Anyone it seemed except for Draco, who didn’t say anything, just sat quietly and looked like he was thinking very hard. Harry decided to ignore him. He certainly wasn’t eager to try again anytime soon.

Theodore Nott sauntered into the room, took one look at the tired, defeated boys, and smirked. Harry didn’t begrudge him the victorious preening. He figured Theodore had had the right idea all along.

Besides, maybe that third floor corridor was off limits for a good reason.

Harry decided to keep his head down and focus on his studies and not go poking into things that weren’t his business. No matter how interesting mysterious packages and locked doors were they weren’t worth getting expelled over.

Harry made it the rest of the month without going anywhere near the third floor except for classes. When he saw Hagrid during meals he waved but made no move to go over and talk to him; he didn’t want to be tempted to pester the tall gamekeeper for information, or risk having Hagrid accidentally let something slip. The less he knew about the mysterious object, Harry decided, the better.

Besides, he really was busy with his work, or so he tried to convince himself. It wasn’t hard; the teachers seemed to really like homework. Harry didn’t feel like he was doing half bad though, especially for being raised by Muggles. Once Snape even complimented him on his potion, although the hook-nosed teacher looked scandalized with himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth and he quickly found an excuse to take points off of Longbottom and Weasley to relieve his distress.

 

 

Maybe it was because every time that Draco mentioned the mysterious package and the third floor corridor Harry and Blaise quickly changed the subject, but Harry noticed that Draco was spending a lot more time lately slipping off alone or with just Crabbe and Goyle for company. Harry figured they were staking out the third floor, trying to find a way through the door to discover its secrets.

Harry ignored them.

He must have been doing a really good job of distracting himself because Harry could hardly believe it when he realized that he’d already been at Hogwarts for two months. He wasn’t entirely sure where the time had gone, but he’d enjoyed almost every minute of it. The castle felt more like home than Privet Drive ever had.

On Halloween morning they woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors. They were distracted all the way through Transfiguration and even Professor McGonagall turning Theodore’s textbook into a bat that flapped all around the room couldn’t completely pull their attention away from the fact that the feast was that evening.

Goyle’s stomach kept rumbling all afternoon.

Finally the last class ended, Flitwick letting them leave a little early when he gave up on getting the students to focus on their levitation spells so close to dinnertime. Harry and the other Slytherins practically ran to the Great Hall where they stopped dead in the entrance and stared, gaping, at the Hallowe’en decorations.

A thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling while a thousand more swooped over the tables in low black clouds, making the candles in the pumpkins stutter. The feast appeared suddenly on the golden plates, as it had at the start-of-term banquet.

Harry was just helping himself to a toasted pumpkin muffin when Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the hall, his turban askew and terror on his face. Everyone stared as he reached Professor Dumbledore’s chair, slumped against the table, and gasped, “Troll—in the dungeons—thought you ought to know.”

He then sank to the floor in a dead faint.

There was an uproar. It took several purple firecrackers exploding from the end of Professor Dumbledore’s wand to bring silence.

“Prefects,” he rumbled, “lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

Crabbe and Goyle took a minute to stuff their pockets with whatever food they could lay their hands on, only reluctantly tearing themselves away from the table when a very pale Draco snapped at them to get moving. They trailed behind the other Slytherins, Draco nervously chivvying Crabbe and Goyle to move faster while they shuffled along stuffing their faces with their stolen bounty.

“How could a troll get in?” Harry asked as they jostled their way through a cluster of Gryffindors. Being with Crabbe and Goyle certainly made it easier to move through a crowd.

“I don’t know,” Draco said, looking around as if expecting it to pop up at any moment, “they’re even stupider than these two.” Crabbe and Goyle looked up and frowned but didn’t interrupt him. “Someone probably let it in to cause trouble—”

“Hey,” said Blaise, shoving past two small Hufflepuffs to grab Draco’s arm, “Quirrell said it’s somewhere in the dungeon, we should slip away and see if we can find it.” His dark eyes glittered excitedly.

“Are you crazy?” Draco yelped. “What for?”

Blaise shrugged. “I dunno,” he said, “you ever seen a live troll?”

“No,” Draco said quickly, “and I don’t see why you’d want to!”

“Besides,” Harry jumped in, “all the teachers are going to be crawling all over down there looking for it, we’d be sure to get caught.”

Blaise frowned grumpily. “Guess so,” he muttered, defeated.

Harry ran full-tilt into Draco when the other boy stopped abruptly. “What is it?” Harry asked in a whisper, certain that he must have seen the troll.

But Draco’s gray eyes were far away and there was a small, strange smile on his face. “All the teachers will be in the dungeons,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” said Blaise reluctantly, “Potter’s probably right, we’d never get away with it. Come on, we’re going to lose the group and then we’ll be in trouble—”

But Draco wasn’t listening. His smile grew slowly wider. “If they’re all in the dungeons,” he said slowly, “then who’s going to be watching the third floor?”

The others stared at him. Harry shook his head.

“No one,” said Draco with a broad smirk. He turned away from the path that led to their common room and started back up the stairs. “Come on.”

“What if we get caught?” said Blaise.

Draco didn’t answer. Crabbe and Goyle shrugged at one another and followed Malfoy.

Harry didn’t move. He met Blaise’s eyes and saw his own reluctance mirrored on the other boy’s dark face. “No way,” said Blaise. “It’s too risky.” He backed away.

Draco paused at the landing and looked down. “Well, Potter?” he asked coldly. “You coming or not?”

Harry hesitated. Blaise made a strangled noise of disgust and left, jogging to try and catch up to the rest of the Slytherins. They hadn’t seemed to notice that the small group of first years was no longer with them.

“Fine,” Harry said at last and hurried after Draco and the others. Better getting caught out of bounds on the third floor than running into the troll all alone down here. Harry didn’t envy Blaise his long, solitary walk back to their common room.

He hoped the other boy didn’t stumble into the troll.

Harry, with Crabbe and Goyle, followed Draco back up to the Great Hall. They slunk along behind a group of flustered Ravenclaws for half a hallway, then ducked into an empty classroom until they’d left. “This way,” Draco whispered, and they took a side staircase hidden behind a painting of some very gossipy old wizards. Harry wondered how much of the castle Draco had explored in his quest to find out what was hidden behind that forbidden door.

They came out through the back of a large statue on the second floor. Draco gasped suddenly and pressed them all back into the niche. Goyle trod on Harry’s foot and he yelped. “Shh!” Draco hissed frantically. Harry peered around the edge of the statue and saw a tall figure in long, dark robes sweep down the hallway away from them.

“That’s Snape!” he whispered. “What’s he doing? Why isn’t he in the dungeons with the other teachers?”

Draco shook his head. “He’s heading to the third floor,” he replied.

Harry gaped. “Do you—do you think he’s trying to—?”

“Yeah,” said Draco. His pale eyes glittered. “Come on, let’s go after him.”

“He’ll see us!” Harry hissed, grabbing Draco’s arm to stop him.

Draco glared at Harry. “Fine,” he said, “we won’t follow him.” He shook Harry off. “But if we get up there quick enough maybe we can sneak in after him, or at least see what’s inside when he gets the door open.”

“You think he’ll be able to?” Harry asked nervously.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Potter, he’s a professor. I’m sure he can handle one stupid door.”

Harry nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay, this way!” Draco hurried off down the hallway in the direction opposite the one Snape had taken. Harry ran after him, trailed by Crabbe and Goyle.

“What if Snape spots us?” Crabbe asked.

Their leader shrugged, not bothering to turn around. “We’ll tell him we got separated from the others and were scared, so when we saw him we followed because we figured he’d be able to protect us from the troll,” he suggested blithely. Crabbe and Goyle nodded. Harry envied the other boy’s ability to think up a story like that on the spot. He wasn’t sure Snape would buy it, but it sounded better than anything Harry could have come up with.

Draco no longer looked frightened at all and Harry had to jog to keep up with him. They were probably making way too much noise, but if all the teachers—except for Snape—were in the dungeon, and all the students back in their dormitories, then Harry supposed there was no one around to hear them…

Except for the troll.

It was a horrible sight. Twelve feet tall, its skin was a dull, granite gray, its great lumpy body like a boulder with its small bald head perched on top like a coconut. It had short legs thick as tree trunks with flat, horny feet. The smell coming from it was incredible. It smelled like a mixture of old socks and the kind of public toilet no one seems to clean. It was holding a huge wooden club, which dragged along the floor because its arms were so long.

The four boys stood frozen, staring at it in horror. The troll slowly swiveled its stumpy head and turned to stare at them. Its eyes were terribly small and beady and seemed blank of any intelligence.

It took a step towards them.

Draco shrieked and bolted back down the hallway, knocking a suit of armor over in his haste. Crabbe and Goyle jumped out of their stupor at the crash of the metal knight hitting the floor and they pelted off after their fleeing comrade. Harry couldn’t move. He stared at the troll as it took another step towards him, then another. His mind had gone completely blank.

There was an open doorway just past the troll and a small figure peered out of it, obviously drawn by the noise. It was the Gryffindor girl Hermione Granger. She gasped and drew back with a yelp.

The troll stopped and turned around. It stared at the petrified girl. Hermione clutched the doorframe and whimpered. The troll started towards her.

“No!” Harry yelled.

The troll turned around, its heavy brow furrowed in confusion. It seemed to be having trouble deciding which of them to attack first. If they could split its focus…

“Yell at it!” Harry shouted to Hermione. She gawked at him. “Confuse it!” he snapped.

“Um,” said Hermione, then, louder, “hey, you troll! Over—over here!” The troll turned back to the Gryffindor girl. “Oh dear,” she murmured, sinking down in the doorway. Her eyes were wide. They also looked puffy, as if she’d been crying. That might explain why she’d been in the bathroom down here instead of already back in her dormitory with the rest of the Gryffindors.

“This way, dummy!” Harry yelled. “Yeah—look at me! You look like my cousin! You—” Harry had been backing away as the troll advanced on him and now he tumbled backwards over the fallen suit of armor. He struggled to free himself but his robes had gotten caught on the knight’s spear.

The troll lumbered forward.

Hermione threw something at the troll. It looked like a textbook. It bounced off its small head without having any effect. “Oh, this way, this way,” she shrieked, “come this way, get away from him! Oh, please!”

The troll obeyed, turning back around to head towards the frightened girl.

Harry wrenched himself free of the pointy metal. Bits of armor tumbled off the knight and clattered on the flagged stone floor. The troll swiveled towards the noise. It was really frowning now, like it was starting to get angry with them. It let out a low, growling roar.

Harry picked up the long, dangerously pointed spear that had fallen from the empty armor’s gloved hand. It was a lot heavier than it looked. He managed to swing it upright and pointed it at the troll, wedging the haft against his trainer so it wouldn’t skid on the smooth stones under his feet.

The troll swatted it out of his hands like it was no bigger than a toothpick. Harry staggered backwards and tripped over the scattered armor again. He flung his arms over his head and squeezed his eyes shut, certain he was about to be dashed into pieces. Hermione screamed.

Then a different voice shouted unfamiliar words and there was a low grunt followed by a heavy crash. Harry opened his eyes to see a twelve-foot mountain troll lying immobile five inches from his side. He yelped and scrambled to his feet.

Professor Snape, looking furious, his wand still extended, was standing in the corridor. He was next to a very pale and breathless Draco Malfoy. Quirrell came up behind them, wheezing. He took one look at the comatose troll and clutched his chest. He leaned heavily against the nearest wall.

Hermione gave a funny little whimper and put her hands over her mouth.

Harry tried to thank Snape but his mouth had gone completely dry and he seemed to have forgotten how to speak. Quirrell turned away as if he couldn’t bear the sight of the troll any longer. Snape finally looked at Harry and the rage in his eyes was enough to make Harry stagger. Then he really did stagger, clapping a hand to his forehead. A sharp, hot pain shot across the scar that Voldemort had left when he’d tried to kill him ten years ago.

Everyone stared at him. The pain had gone as quickly as it had come. Harry flushed, embarrassed. He looked at his feet, and at the troll lying at them, so he missed the sharp glance that passed between Quirrell and Snape. They had the same oddly closed expression on their faces, calculating and dark.

Draco ran to Harry and clutched his arm. He looked unnaturally pale. “Are you all right?” he asked. “What happened, why didn’t you run? Did you really try and fight the troll? Why? And what’s _she_ doing here?” At the last question he turned to scowl at Hermione. 

Harry shrugged, still pretty shaken. “Dunno,” he muttered.

“I—I was in the bathroom,” Hermione stammered. She went very red and looked at her feet.

Just then a very breathless Professor McGonagall shot around the other corner. She stopped when she saw the tableau of trembling students, defeated troll, and glowering professors. “What happened here?” she snapped, panting heavily.

Snape finally stirred. He didn’t answer her question but walked over to the troll. Harry noticed that he was limping and he winced when he bent down to inspect the fallen creature. Harry opened his mouth to ask what had happened but Draco caught his eyes and shook his head quickly. He still looked fearfully pale.

“What _happened?_ ” Professor McGonagall asked again, her sharp green eyes flicking between all of them. Harry looked back at his feet. His brain whirred but he couldn’t think of anything he could say that would keep them out of more trouble than he’d ever wanted to imagine.

“The troll has been dealt with,” Snape said.

McGonagall’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Yes, I can see that, Severus!” she snapped.

“Why don’t you inform the Headmaster that the danger is over?” he suggested smoothly.

McGonagall’s jaw worked and she glared at Snape ferociously for a long minute. Harry resisted the urge to speak. “Very sensible,” she forced out at last and, bestowing a final fierce look on all of them, the deputy headmistress turned on her heel and stalked away down the hallway.

“Now,” Snape said softly, “perhaps you would like to explain to me what you were doing here?” His eyes were fixed on Harry, who swallowed and ducked his head.

“Please sir, I—I was just in the bathroom,” Hermione said in a very small voice.

Snape turned to look at the Gryffindor girl. “Instead of at the feast?” he asked.

“I—left,” Hermione replied, an oddly shifty expression on her face. She looked miserable and couldn’t meet Snape’s eyes any better than Harry could.

“I see,” the Potions Master said coolly.

His eyes flicked to the Slytherins. “And you two?” he asked. Harry gulped.

Draco was still pale and a little shaky but his expression was very cool when he turned around to look at their head of house. “We were curious,” he said blithely. There was a strange look in his gray eyes that Harry couldn’t figure out. “We thought we’d try and catch a glimpse of the troll.” He smirked slightly, obviously lying and making no attempt to hide it. But why he was telling a lie that would also get them in trouble, Harry couldn’t fathom. It was almost like he was deliberately baiting Snape.

The Potions Master stared at him in silence. “Mmm,” he said after a while. Then, “Potter, detention. My office. 5:30, Monday.”

“Just Potter?” asked Hermione, frowning. “But Malfoy was—”

Snape rounded on her sharply. “Mr. Malfoy was sensible enough to go find a teacher to prevent the troll from harming anyone,” he said, “even knowing that doing so would leave him open to reprimand. I will certainly not punish a student for showing such good sense and character.” The look on his face was very odd and his speech rushed as if he’d just made all that up. “But you, Miss Granger, may join Potter on Monday.”

“But I was just—”

“Lying to me?” Snape interrupted coldly.

Hermione flushed and fell silent. Harry didn’t dare protest in case things got worse. At least Snape hadn’t taken any points. Quirrell didn’t say anything. Apparently he either felt their punishments were fair or he was just too overcome with being this close to a troll, even a slumbering one, to be able to speak.

“Now, I believe that you should all return to your dormitories,” Snape continued frostily. “No doubt your… _friends_ will be missing you.” The sneer on his face was very unpleasant. Hermione flinched.

Draco nodded. “Good evening, professors,” he said coolly.

Harry gave a tiny little wave to Hermione who waved back then fled up the stairs to her common room. Harry followed Draco, then he paused. He grabbed Draco’s sleeve. “What about Crabbe and Goyle?” he hissed.

“Oh bother,” Draco whispered. “Where do you think they ran off to?”

The Slytherins glanced over their shoulders but Snape was staring at them very closely. Behind the curtain of his hair his dark eyes glittered.

They didn’t need to speak to decide that it would be a bad idea to go looking for the missing boys right now. Hopefully they’d run straight back to the common room and were even now waiting nervously for Harry and Draco to return.

The troll was dealt with, at least, so wherever they were, they’d be fine.

Or at worst, in detention.

 


	6. Detention

Crabbe and Goyle weren’t in the common room when they got back, which was weird because the food from the feast was. Draco and Harry slipped in almost unnoticed; Theodore spotted them and then looked pointedly away. He nudged Blaise and whispered something to him. Blaise glanced over and then he, too, looked the other way, although more reluctantly. They had clearly decided together that whatever Harry and Draco had learned about the third floor, they didn’t want to know.

Or at least, they didn’t want to admit to it.

Harry suddenly realized he was famished and grabbed a plate. He sat down and quickly began making up for the fact that Crabbe and Goyle were absent. Draco, still looking pale—or paler than usual, anyway; he’d gone so white he was almost translucent—sat and fidgeted, hardly touching his food.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Harry said, trying to reassure the other boy.

“Hmm?” said Draco distractedly. “Who?”

“Crabbe and Goyle. They’ll be all right,” said Harry. “I’m sure they’ll be along soon.”

“Oh, them. Right. Sure,” said Draco. He stared into the fire without seeming to see it.

Harry shrugged and kept eating. Fighting a troll certainly gave one an appetite.

Draco waited impatiently while Harry contentedly stuffed his face with the whole assortment of feasting goodies. As Harry was starting in on his third cauldron cake Draco finally clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Are you going to eat the whole bloody pumpkin?” he snapped.

Harry stared at the pale, angry boy. “Um,” he said. He looked down at the half-eaten pastry in his hands, realized he wasn’t actually hungry anymore, and shrugged. He put it back down on the plate. “Nah,” he said, “guess I’m done.”

“Good,” said Draco shortly. He stood up. “Come on, while Nott and Zabini are still busy with all of this.” He flicked a hand at the impromptu feasting as if it offended him.

Harry shrugged again, bemused, and followed the other boy down the stairs to their dormitory.

“What is it?” he asked curiously.

Draco shushed him and shut the door. He sat down on his bed, half-hidden in the shadows from the heavy green curtains. His face was very white and his colorless eyes shone like wide round mirrors.

Harry sat down on the edge of his own bed facing the other boy. “What is it?” he asked again, almost whispering, infected by the other’s strange behavior.

“The door was open,” Draco whispered.

Harry’s whole body tingled with excitement. He didn’t need to ask which door Draco meant. “What—what was in there?” he said eagerly.

“A monster!” said Draco. “A huge dog with three or four heads, absolutely enormous, fangs everywhere.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “No way!” he exclaimed.

Draco hushed him, glancing anxiously at the door. “And that’s not all,” he said quietly. “Snape was fighting it!”

Harry gasped.

“Quirrell was there, too,” the other boy continued. He was so pale that Harry was afraid he was going to faint. “He was—laughing.” Draco shuddered.

“Laughing?” Harry repeated. “But Quirrell’s always so… _scared_.”

“He looked scared,” Draco said, nodding, “but his laugh— _wasn’t_.”

Harry shook his head. “Wow,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” said Draco. “Whatever’s in there…it must be pretty important…”

“And Snape and Quirrell were—were trying to _steal_ it?”

Draco shrugged. “Seems that way,” he said.

“But they’re _professors!_ ” Harry protested.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And?” he asked.

“I don’t know…I just can’t imagine a professor trying to steal something from Hogwarts…”

“You’re so naïve, Potter,” Draco snorted. His eyes lit up with a sudden thought. “I wonder if one of _them_ broke into Gringotts!”

Harry gasped. “I saw Quirrell in Diagon Alley that day!” he exclaimed.

They stared at each other, wide-eyed, picturing their stuttering, shrinking Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher braving Goblins and dragons and all manner of traps and dangers to walk through Gringotts and open an empty vault.

“You think they’re working together,” Harry asked, “or trying to beat each other to it?”

Draco shrugged. “Dunno,” he said, “but I wish I knew what it was they were after.” His eyes were gleaming.

Then Crabbe and Goyle came in at last and they stopped talking. The two thickset boys shuffled in, shamefaced, and explained how they’d been found hiding under desks in the Transfiguration classroom by McGonagall and now they had detentions of their own.

Draco was too distracted to care and didn’t bother to scold them for running off, or for getting themselves into trouble. “Too bad,” said Harry, and told them about his fight with the troll.

Crabbe and Goyle gasped in all the right places but Harry’s heart wasn’t in the story. He was too busy thinking about the forbidden door and the empty vault. Some things were even more exciting than almost getting killed by a twelve-foot mountain troll. 

 

 

Detention wasn’t one of them, but Harry didn’t want to keep Snape waiting. He walked out of the Great Hall with Draco; Crabbe and Goyle were back at the Slytherin table, still eating. Draco followed Harry, complaining at the nerve of Snape in giving him a detention. “You should talk to him,” Draco insisted. “I’m sure he’ll change his mind if you just explain how it isn’t fair.”

“Well, it kind of is fair, isn’t it?” Harry protested. “I mean, we _were_ out where we weren’t supposed to be, sneaking around when there was a troll on the loose. The only reason _you’re_ not in detention is because you saw him—you know—and he doesn’t want you telling.”

Draco smirked. “So mention that you know what he was up to, and see if he’ll let you off then.”

Harry made a face. “No thanks,” he said. “Snape already doesn’t really like me, the last thing I want to do is deliberately try and goad him.”

Draco shrugged. “Your funeral,” he said.

“It’s just a detention,” Harry said. “I’m sure it can’t be… _that_ bad…”

“Sure, it’s—oh look, it’s _Granger_. You think she’s waiting for you?” Draco sneered.

The Gryffindor girl that Harry would be sharing his detention with had in fact stopped at the entrance to the Great Hall and, spotting Harry, paused while he caught up.

“What’s the matter, Granger,” Draco called, “afraid to walk the halls alone now? Need Potter around in case there’s another troll?”

Hermione scowled. “I’m not the one that yelped like a girl and ran off,” she shot back.

Harry bit his lip to keep from smirking. It _had_ been a really girly yell, but Draco was his friend. He couldn’t agree in front of other people. Besides, Hermione had looked every bit as scared as the rest of them; she just hadn’t had anywhere to run.

Draco flushed angrily. “You shut your mouth, you filthy little Mudblood,” he snapped.

Hermione just raised an eyebrow but two of the Gryffindor boys who were leaving dinner—Longbottom and Weasley—spun around angrily.

“What’d you say, Malfoy?” Weasley demanded.

“You heard me,” Draco said calmly.

“Why don’t you say it again to my face,” Weasley suggested, stepping so close to Draco that their noses were nearly touching. Longbottom followed, looking nervous. Harry wondered if the Gryffindors would have been so brave if Crabbe or Goyle had been there to back their pale friend up instead of Harry.

“Sure.” Draco wrinkled his nose. “I said your friend’s a stupid Mudblood, and it’s her fault Potter’s in trouble, and she’s lucky he’s so appallingly nice he’ll even stick his neck out for _her kind_ , or she’d be troll food by now.”

“You take that back,” Weasley demanded. He raised his fists.

“Oh, stop it,” Hermione snapped. “He’s right, I was pretty foolish.” She glared ferociously at Weasley, as if it could somehow have been his fault that she’d been caught by the troll. “And if Potter hadn’t come along, I probably would have been in serious trouble, and he is in trouble because of me, and—anyway, thank you, Harry.”

Harry shrugged. “Well, you kind of saved me, too…” he said, but no one was paying attention to him.

“He called you a—a—a— _that!_ ” Weasley protested. Longbottom nodded ferociously.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, whatever he called me, I don’t need _you_ starting fights on my behalf,” she retorted.

“Sorry,” Longbottom muttered.

“Oh Neville, I’m not mad at _you_ ,” Hermione said, sounding quite cross. “It was very brave of you to stand up for me, thank you.”

Draco smirked. “I’m certainly shocked to see Longbottom’s got a spine in there somewhere,” he drawled. “Did your gran send it to you in the mail?”

“Shut-up, Malfoy,” Hermione said. She glared at all of them equally. “If you lot all want to fight, you go ahead. _I_ am going to go find Professor Snape before I’m _late_.” She turned around. “Are you coming, Harry?”

Harry shrugged at Draco. He felt bad about cutting out mid-confrontation, but he certainly didn’t want to keep Snape waiting. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Yeah,” he said to Hermione, hurrying to keep up with the angry Gryffindor. He glanced behind him.

Either Draco was bored now that Granger was gone or he’d suddenly realized that he was outnumbered, because he made one last parting comment about Weasley’s family that Harry only half-heard and then he retreated quickly back to the Slytherin table. Weasley and Longbottom stormed off, the latter looking relieved but the former’s freckled face was twisted in fury. Harry grimaced, glad that the only class they shared with the Gryffindors was Potions.

He’d never properly appreciated how fortunate he was to have Snape for his head of house.

“Honestly,” Hermione growled under her breath. She walked very quickly and Harry had to trot to keep up.

“Sorry about that,” he ventured tentatively.

“Oh, I don’t even care,” Hermione snapped back. “Boys are all just so—so— _annoying_.” She scowled. “No offense.”

Harry shrugged. “Sorry?” he said again.

Hermione shook her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “I just want to get this over with. I can’t believe I got a detention, what my parents will think, if this goes on my permanent record I can’t even imagine what I’ll do, it was so stupid…”

“Well,” said Harry, “I’m glad you were there, at least. I’d have been in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“Likewise I’m sure,” Hermione replied primly. She smiled at him just slightly and he grinned back.

They made it to Snape’s office with time to spare but he still glared at them as if they were late. “Follow me,” he snapped, and swished off down the hallway to the Potions Classroom. Harry and Hermione trotted at his heels, panting slightly. Harry wished he’d asked Draco to take his schoolbag back to their common room. Still, he might need his quill or something, so it was probably good that he’d brought it along...

“Inside.”

They preceded Snape into the cold classroom and stopped dead. The tables within were all stacked with cauldrons, every one of them with thick, dried goo encrusted on their sides.

“Ick,” murmured Hermione. Harry had to agree.

Snape's face curled into a small smile. “I’ll need these cleaned,” he said smoothly. “And since neither of you could manage any magic when you were confronted by that troll, you will also do this by hand.” He pointed to a small and woefully inadequate pile of cleaning supplies and sponges by the door. Hermione deflated. Harry wondered what kind of magical cleaning spells she knew. He'd have been stuck doing it without magic anyway; he didn’t know any.

“Perhaps,” Snape said, “such an odious task will serve to ingrain in your tiny minds an awareness that you are not Muggles and can, in fact, do magic—although not in this situation of course.” His smile was very cold. “You may leave when you are finished. I will return to check on your progress shortly.” He swept from the room.

Harry looked at the cauldrons. He had the feeling that Snape had gotten them all that filthy deliberately. Certainly he’d never have allowed any of his students to leave a cauldron in such a state. For a moment he entertained the idea of doing as Draco had suggested and trying to bully Snape into letting him off the hook. But the Potions Master was an intimidating person and Harry didn’t want to get any more on his bad side than he already was.

Besides, it wouldn't have been fair to make Hermione deal with all the mess by herself.

Harry sighed. “Great,” he muttered sarcastically. “Just when I wasn't feeling homesick...”

Hermione looked quizzical so Harry explained how he’d grown up with a Muggle aunt and uncle who’d delighted in making him do disgusting chores like this, although granted they’d never come up with a few hundred cauldrons coated in a year’s-worth of accumulated magical goop.

“You’re like Cinderella,” Hermione said, and giggled.

Harry stuck his tongue out at her and stomped over to the sponges and soap. He wondered where they were going to get clean water from, then remembered Snape’s jibe. They were probably meant to conjure it magically. Harry pulled out his wand and tried to remember the spell.

Hermione giggled again and sang a few lines from the obnoxious Disney song so Harry threw a wet sponge at her. She shrieked.

They spent a few minutes pelting each other with the cleaning supplies before finally getting down to work, wet and shivering but laughing.

It wasn't long before the tedious task had them grumbling instead. Harry wished he’d brought a jacket or his cloak. His thin jumper wasn’t nearly warm enough for the cold Potions classroom, especially now that it was damp and soapy.

Hermione conjured a bit of blue fire and set it in one of the clean cauldrons. They huddled around the warmth while they scrubbed and scraped at the others.

Harry liked the cauldrons with the thick green gunk the best, it flaked off easily when he picked at it. The ones with drippy red lines down their sides were the worst. Whatever potion they’d had in them stung his hands when it got wet and it took forever to scrub clean. He swore and sucked his knuckles.

“Hey Harry,” Hermione asked curiously after a while, “what was that word Malfoy called me in the Great Hall?”

“What, Mudblood?” said Harry. He shrugged. “I’m not sure what it means, actually. I never asked.” He hadn't wanted to admit ignorance of something so obvious as wizarding slang in front of all the Slytherins. “I mean, I know it’s not good, whatever it is, but beyond that…”

“Yes, I figured that much out for myself, thanks,” Hermione said tartly. “Ron and Neville getting ready to punch Malfoy out for saying it was sort of a give-away.”

“Yeah, sorry about him,” Harry said. “He’s really all right when he’s not, you know, being a prat… Anyway, it’s nice that your friends will stand up for you like that.”

“They're not my friends,” Hermione said quickly. Her voice was oddly high-pitched. “I mean, Neville’s all right, he’s nice enough—but _Ron_. Oooh, I don’t think I've ever met anyone who makes me so mad…and I was just trying to _help_ , too…see how he likes it when I’m _not_ correcting his spells…” She subsided, muttering fiercely, scrubbing at her cauldron rather harder than was necessary.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Sorry.”

He sort of agreed, though. All the Weasleys were a plague, at least if you were in Slytherin. Those twins, especially…Harry grimaced. He had a shrunken pink jumper buried in his trunk thanks to them. Still, Hermione looked really mad—almost hurt—and Harry felt like he had to say something. “Well…he did stand up for you to Draco, at least, so he can’t be all that bad, right?” he ventured.

“Hmph,” was all Hermione said.

They scrubbed away in silence. Harry was very glad that Hermione was there. Everyone called her a know-it-all, but Harry was coming to appreciate that she really did seem to be as smart as everyone teased her for being. The classroom would have been really unbearably cold without her blue fire. His sore, wet fingers were frozen enough as it was.

Eventually Harry realized that Snape had come back in. He was standing by his desk at the front of the room, watching them. His dark eyes held an unfathomable gleam. Harry thought the Potions Master’s expression looked oddly almost tender, but that must have been a trick of Hermione’s fire. A sharp smirk was the closest to _pleasant_ that Snape’s face ever came, Harry was sure.

Hermione looked up. “Oh, hello professor,” she said. She flushed and tried to nudge the cauldron with its flickering blue flames out of sight behind the dirty stacks they hadn’t gotten to yet.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “I see that one of you, at least, knows that she’s a witch after all,” he said smoothly. His eyes flicked to Harry who winced. It wasn’t his fault he didn’t know how to conjure up magical fire. They hadn’t learned that yet. Either the Gryffindors had gotten a lot farther in Charms than the Slytherins had, or Hermione was reading ahead.

Hermione blushed redder and beamed at the praise. “Oh. Yes sir,” she said, “thank you.”

Harry resisted the urge to make a face at the Gryffindor girl. If she hadn’t offered to share her flaming cauldron, he’d have been utterly frozen and miserable. It wasn’t her fault that Snape didn’t like Harry any more than it was his fault that Hermione was clearly a better witch than he was a wizard.

“Sir,” Hermione hazarded, when Snape turned to leave. He paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder, his face a cold mask. “Yes?” he said, voice bored.

“Excuse me, sir, but I was just wondering—I mean, if you don't mind, I was…well, I was curious about something, and I was hoping you could explain it to me, maybe. It’s probably really rude, though,” she added hastily.

Snape’s eyebrow climbed up higher. “What is it?” he asked impatiently.

“Well, it’s a word. And I’m not sure that it would be in the ordinary dictionary, you see, I think it must be slang, and I’ve never heard it before, and I was just hoping that maybe you could tell me what it meant—”

“The word, girl,” he interrupted. “What is it?”

“Oh. Well, it’s Mudblood, and I—”

Snape’s face went absolutely white with fury. Hermione fell silent, shrinking back. Harry wished he were invisible. He’d never seen the Potions Master so mad. Snape’s dark eyes snapped to Harry. “Potter,” he snarled, “if you—”

“Oh no—no,” Hermione interrupted him, stammering. “It—it wasn’t Harry, no, it was—earlier, before we—before we got here—please don't—”

“And you allowed someone to speak that way in your presence, boy?” he snarled at Harry.

“Um,” said Harry.

“I would think you'd have more respect for your mother than that!” Snape was so angry there were two bright red spots in his pale cheeks. His black eyes were nearly shooting off sparks.  

“I—I’m sorry, sir,” said Harry, “but…what? I don't understand…”

Snape swallowed hard, making a visible effort to drag himself back under control. “Mudblood,” he said, spitting the word out like it hurt him to speak it, “is a loathsome, vile, unbelievably offensive term for someone born of Muggle parents, like your friend Miss Granger there. Like your mother,” he said, his voice quiet. “Only the most wretched, foul, unforgivable of cretins would use such a word,” Snape said bitterly. “Tell me who it was.”

Hermione opened her mouth a few times, trembling, clearly too frightened to speak. Harry didn't blame her; he felt exactly the same. Snape looked absolutely murderous.

“Tell me!” the Potions Master demanded.

“M-malfoy,” Hermione gasped. She cringed.

Snape's face worked like he was literally biting his tongue. “I see,” he said at last, voice strangled. Harry gulped. He looked down at the stone floor in front of him so he could avoid Snape’s glittering eyes. Next to him Hermione was doing the same thing.

“Five points from Slytherin,” Snape finally snapped. “You should have said something, Potter,” he added. “Your mother would be ashamed.”

Harry gaped. The Potions Master swept out of the room, limping stiffly.

“It’s not fair!” he burst out.

“He—he might have been taking the points because of Malfoy,” Hermione suggested tentatively.

“Not that,” said Harry, “He wasn’t, I’m sure, but I don't care about that.” He was vaguely surprised to find out as he said it that it was true. “It’s just not fair that everyone knows more about me than I do! I never even really knew my parents, I didn’t know my mum was Muggle-born—well, I guess she had to have been, what with Aunt Petunia, but I didn’t _know_ …I don’t know _anything_ about who I am…” Harry flung his soapy sponge across the room. It hit a grimy cauldron and stuck to the side.

Hermione shrugged. She looked miserable and helpless.

Harry’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Hey,” he said, “you read, like, everything, don't you?”

Hermione nodded hesitantly.

“You said, when I first met you, didn’t you say something about how you’d read about me somewhere, and Vold—sorry, You-Know-Who? Isn’t there some book on the war?”

“Oh—well, yes,” said Hermione. “Lots, actually. There aren’t a lot of biographical details on your parents, though, at least not in the ones I read. I suppose there would be somewhere if you looked…”

“You think the library would have anything like that?” Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. “It might,” she said. “The collection is pretty extensive…”

“Brilliant,” said Harry. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that before.”

“I have found,” Hermione said primly, “that for some reason most people tend to think of reading as an option of very last resort.”

“I guess,” said Harry. “It just seems weird that there’d be stuff about _me_ in a _library book_ though, you know?”

Hermione nodded. “I suppose it would, yes. I’d certainly be perplexed to come across myself in one,” she admitted. “Of course, my parents are dentists, so that’s not very likely. After all, _I’ve_ never defeated a Dark Wizard. I suppose once you do that sort of thing, you have to get used to being a topic of historical discussion.”

Harry shrugged. “Good point,” he said. He picked his sponge back up and attacked the cauldrons with renewed vigor. He didn’t have much homework tonight; maybe if they finished soon enough he’d have time to go to the library and, weird as the idea was, look himself up.

He couldn’t think of anywhere else he could go to learn about his parents. The way Snape was talking it sounded like he’d known Harry’s mother, at least, but the last thing Harry wanted to do was pester Snape with questions about his mum.

Besides, he couldn't imagine they’d gotten along.

 

 

By the time all the cauldrons (and Harry suspected that they’d begun multiplying magically halfway through) were spotless enough to satisfy Snape, it was dark outside—not that you could tell from within the dungeons—and all Harry wanted to do was find his bed and collapse.

He wasn't looking forward to the Transfiguration essay he had to write, and he knew he wasn’t going to practice his wand-movements for Charms. He’d have to ask Draco to poke him if he started snoring in History of Magic tomorrow. He was more tired than he could ever remember being.

He barely managed to lift his heavy, lifeless arm to wave goodbye to Hermione. His “goodnight” came out as nothing more than a grunt. She nodded weakly and twitched her fingers in response. Hermione looked as wiped as Harry felt. He didn't envy her the long climb up to wherever the Gryffindor common room was. He knew it was somewhere high up because whenever he saw Gryffindors coming to class, they were always walking _down_.

Harry was really glad his own common room was just down the hall and around a few corners. He croaked the password— _wormwood_ —and stumbled over the threshold.

There were only a few students inside, most of them older. The rest of the Slytherins were clearly in bed already. Harry wondered what time it was. He sat down at one of the desks and pulled out his half-finished essay. He definitely should have worked on it more over the week-end.

If he was honest with himself, he should have finished it then, and he’d known that from the beginning. It had just been really hard to focus on homework when everyone kept asking him about the troll. It had been a lot more fun to reenact more and more elaborate and heroic scenarios for the amusement of his housemates than to sit down and write about the rules of Transfiguring inorganic matter.

Harry yawned wide enough to make his jaw crack and forced his tired, numb fingers to close around his quill. He had to get this done before he fell asleep…

Two hours later a dressing gown-clad Draco Malfoy shook him awake.

Harry mumbled something and pulled himself off the desk. He blotted a spot of drool that fortunately hadn’t smeared the ink too badly. Draco asked something that Harry was too tired to understand. He shook his head, scribbled something that he hoped resembled a decent conclusion, tucked the essay into his schoolbag, and stumbled down the stairs after the other boy.

Harry managed to kick off his shoes before he collapsed on his bed. He dropped his filthy jumper on the floor, his glasses on the nightstand, and was snoring before he realized he’d closed his eyes.

He sleepily vowed to never get detention again.


	7. Quidditch

As they entered November, the weather turned very cold. The mountains around the school became icy gray and the lake like chilled steel. Every morning the ground was covered in frost. Hagrid could be seen from the upstairs windows defrosting broomsticks on the Quidditch field, bundled up in a long moleskin overcoat, rabbit fur gloves, and enormous beaverskin boots.

The Quidditch season had begun. This Saturday was the first match of the year: Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

Harry couldn’t wait. He’d never seen a Quidditch match but he already thought it was probably the most exciting sport ever invented. He even thought he’d figured out most of the rules.

He’d gone to the library Tuesday night, planning to find books on his parents and the war, and had been distracted instead by a tome titled _Quidditch Through the Ages_. Harry wasn’t ordinarily much for side-reading—the teachers assigned more than enough as it was—but it had been a fascinating book. Harry thought he might try out for the team next year. He’d buy himself a broom and try to find somewhere to practice; he was thinking he might go for Seeker. Slytherin’s current one was a seventh year so they’d need a new one when Higgs graduated, and it seemed like a really great position, especially for someone who might not exactly know all the rules or fouls yet…

Of course, Harry hadn’t managed to learn anything about his mom or dad, or about Voldemort, but he had plenty of time for that research. Quidditch was happening right now; learning his origins would be neat, but it couldn’t possibly affect anything in his life.

It wasn’t like his parents’ old chums were going to crawl out of the woodwork or anything, and Voldemort was gone for good. Even if he popped back up somehow, it would be far, far away from Hogwarts. Harry could focus on the past later.

Right now, there was Quidditch.

 

Saturday morning dawned very bright and cold. Harry trooped out to the Quidditch pitch with Draco and the rest of the school. Even Theodore, who usually couldn’t be bothered to tell a Bludger from a Quaffle, came along. By eleven o’clock Harry figured that Hogwarts had to be totally empty. Everyone was crowded into the stands waiting for the match to start.

The students clustered in house-based sections. Everyone seemed to be wearing either red or green. The green was vastly outnumbered; only the Slytherins were in their colors. Everyone else was supporting Gryffindor.

Slytherin had taken the Cup for the past seven years and the lions weren’t alone in wanting to take it back. The other three houses had more or less united in their jealous enmity. They wanted to see Slytherin fall and they weren’t particularly picky about which one of them would take the top slot from the snakes.

The Slytherin team got booed and hissed when they walked out onto the pitch. They hissed right back.

Harry thought the team made an impressive sight. They were all big, bulky boys who made Harry feel very scrawny. Even their Seeker was pretty tall, although he was lankier than the rest of the team.

Harry looked at the Gryffindors, who were met with a thunderous cheer from the rest of the stands. The Slytherins hissed and jeered. A burly fifth year shouted something especially insulting about the Gryffindors’ mothers. One of the Weasley twins pointed to the boy with his Beater’s bat like a promise. Everyone else edged away from him. They didn’t want to risk getting brained by a Bludger, especially one sent by a Weasley. The matching red-heads were dangerous enough with just wands.

Madame Hooch was refereeing. She stood in the middle of the field waiting for the two teams, her broom in her hand.

Marcus Flint shook hands with the Gryffindor Captain and everyone climbed onto their brooms. Madame Hooch gave a loud blast on her silver whistle.

Fifteen brooms rose up, high, high into the air. They were off.

The spectators exploded in cheers, Harry screaming so loudly he missed the opening commentary.

“—ina Johnson of Gryffindor—what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too—”

“JORDAN!”

“Sorry, Professor.”

Harry snickered. For some reason, a Gryffindor boy was doing the commentary for the match, and Professor McGonagall seemed to have been tasked with keeping him under control. Harry would have picked a Hufflepuff; it would have made for no less of a bias, Hufflepuff wanted Slytherin to lose almost as much as Gryffindor did, but Gryffindors were notoriously unruly.

Harry thought McGonagall was going to be in for a long match.

“And she’s really belting along up there,” the Gryffindor announcer continued, his magically-amplified voice easily reaching to the farthest stands. Harry wouldn’t have been surprised if he could be heard all the way out to Hagrid’s hut. “A neat pass to Alicia Spinnet,” Jordan was saying, “a good friend of Oliver Wood’s, last year only a reserve—back to Johnson and—no, the Slytherins have taken the Quaffle.”

Harry jumped to his feet with the rest of his house, cheering for Flint.

“Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint gains the Quaffle and off he goes—Flint flying like an eagle up there—he’s going to sc– no, stopped by an excellent move by Gryffindor Keeper Wood and the Gryffindors take the Quaffle.”

Harry groaned and dropped back into his seat. _Stupid Keeper._

“That’s Chaser Katie Bell of Gryffindor there, nice dive around Flint, off up the field and—OUCH—that must have hurt, hit in the back of the head by a Bludger—Quaffle taken by the Slytherins.”

Harry cheered again, too excited to even feel badly about how much a Bludger to the skull had to hurt. The Gryffindor girl wobbled on her broom but quickly sped off again, tailing Pucey, but he had too much of a lead, he was going to make it, Harry crossed his fingers…

“That’s Adrian Pucey speeding off toward the goal posts, but he’s blocked by a second Bludger—sent his way by Fred or George Weasley, can’t tell which—nice play by the Gryffindor Beater, anyway, and Johnson back in possession of the Quaffle, a clear field ahead and off she goes—she’s really flying—dodges a speeding Bludger—the goal posts are ahead—come on now, Angelina—Keeper Bletchley dives—misses—GRYFFINDORS SCORE!”

Gryffindor cheers filled the cold air, with howls and moans from the Slytherins. Blaise swore foully. “Come on, come on!” Draco yelled. “Who do they think they’re playing, Hufflepuff? Let’s go!” He had brought a pair of binoculars, like many of the students, and had them pressed to his face, searching the sky. Harry squinted against the sun’s glare and decided to add binoculars to his list of things to get the next time he made it to Diagon Alley.

The Gryffindor commentator was still speaking; even amplified as he was, Harry couldn’t hear him until the cheering faded back to its pre-score level. “—taken from Spinnet, looked like a foul to me but the ref isn’t calling it—sorry Professor, just telling the truth and—all right, all right, Johnson steals the Quaffle back, good girl Angelina, take it to the goal now and—no, blocked by Slytherin—”

Then Harry missed what was said next because there was a mad scramble in the stands. A Bludger came pelting their way—it was rare but not entirely unheard of for spectators to become unwillingly involved in Quidditch matches, although usually the charms that kept the Bludgers flying also kept them out of the stands—and Harry yelped and ducked along with everyone else.

The Bludger skimmed right over Harry’s head, did a weird little wobble—probably the charm fighting inertia to pull it away from the stands and back into the pitch where it belonged—and swooped back towards the Slytherins. They screamed and covered their heads but then one of the Slytherin Beaters—Harry was too busy ducking to see which one—was there and he walloped the heavy iron ball back into play.

It went reluctantly, easily dodged by Spinnet who then dropped the Quaffle when she slammed into the other Slytherin Beater who seemed to have accidentally served as a Bludger himself, knocking the smaller Gryffindor girl halfway off her broom with his bulk. The Gryffindors—and Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs—shouted in outrage but Madame Hooch didn’t interfere. She was too busy scolding whichever of the Weasley twins had apparently sent the Bludger towards the stands.

He somehow talked his way out of a penalty; it could have been an accident, after all, although after his little pointing stunt with the bat at the start of the match it hadn’t looked good for him, but Hooch didn’t call anything on him, or on his Slytherin counterpart.

Harry picked himself up off the floor of the stands. The Slytherins brushed themselves off and crowded back towards the rails. It would take more than one stray Bludger to deter Quidditch spectators.

McGonagall chided her commentator into shutting up about Spinnet’s collision and getting back to talking about the match. “That’s Flint in possession, Flint dodges Bell and—ooh, bad luck, there’s a Weasley Bludger for Slytherin’s Captain and it’s Gryffindor back in possession, Johnson with the Quaffle, Johnson heading—no, she’s lost it—Slytherin in possession!”

The green-clad stands erupted in more cheering. Someone started chanting Pucey’s name and the rest of the Slytherins took it up. Harry pounded the wooden rail in front of him in time with the chanting. “PUCEY! PUCEY! PUCEY!” he shouted.

“Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds towards the—wait a moment—was that the Snitch?”

A murmur ran through the crowd as Adrian Pucey dropped the Quaffle, too busy looking over his shoulder at the flash of gold that had passed his left ear.

“What are you doing?” Draco wailed, although the Chaser couldn’t possibly have heard him. “You aren’t the Seeker, you idiot, keep your hands on the Quaffle!”

Next to him Blaise was shouting similar advice, although slightly more colorfully. They weren’t the only ones scolding Pucey. Harry was too busy watching the snitch, a tiny flash of gold zipping through the cold gray sky. He was digging his fingers so hard into the wooden bar in front of him that splinters flaked up in his hands. He ignored them.

“Come on, come on, come on,” Harry whispered, unblinking, as if he could will the Snitch to stay in place and wait to be caught if he only stared hard enough.

Slytherin’s Seeker had seen it, too: Terence Higgs dived downwards after the streak of gold. “Come on!” Harry shouted. Gryffindor’s Seeker was chasing Higgs, but he was too slow, too slow, too—

“HIGGS CATCHES THE SNITCH!” the Gryffindor commentator shouted, then, loudly, “DAMMIT!”

Professor McGonagall’s admonishing shriek was drowned out by the roar from the Slytherin students. They were all on their feet, screaming, clapping, jumping, hugging. Goyle pounded Harry so hard on the back that he almost fell over, he had to clutch Blaise’s shoulder to stay upright and they were all still cheering, still yelling. Harry’s throat was hoarse from screaming but he didn’t stop. They were so loud Harry could hardly hear the wails and moans from the rest of the school, the little Slytherin section almost drowning out the noise from the other three houses.

They had won by one hundred and fifty points to ten, there had only been time for one goal and it didn’t matter that it had been Gryffindor’s because they had caught the Snitch!

Harry shouted and laughed all the way back to the common room. No one did any homework that Saturday. They were all too busy celebrating their victory and talking about the Cup.

Seven years in a row, going on eight.


	8. The Mirror of Erised

Christmas was coming. One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the Slytherins took to wearing large fuzzy slippers around their common room. The thick rugs were always comfortably warm from the fire but the bits of stone in between were frigid. The few owls that managed to battle their way through the stormy sky to deliver mail had to be nursed back to health by Hagrid before they could fly off again.

No one could wait for the holidays to start. While the Slytherin common room and the Great Hall had roaring fires, the drafty corridors had become icy and a bitter wind rattled the windows in the classrooms. Worst of all were Professor Snape’s classes, where their breath rose in a mist before them and they kept as close as possible to their hot cauldrons. Herbology was almost as bad; the greenhouse itself was warm and cozy, but getting there through the frozen yard was a trial, not least because of the high odds of getting hit by a sudden snowball ambush.

The Slytherins started jogging to and from classes. It was too cold in the hallways outside their common room to dawdle. Harry wasn’t the only student who wore his scarf and gloves on the way to breakfast. The students waited until the last possible moment to leave the warmth of their dungeon room, then sprinted to the Great Hall where they’d arrive panting and overheated. They did the same thing on the way back, usually falling through the stone door in a jumble.

The others were all packing and unpacking their trunks, always rummaging for something they’d put away and then realized they still needed. Once Goyle had to run back to the dormitory in the middle of class because he’d left his wand behind. He was fortunate it had been Charms with Flitwick; any other teacher would have taken points and probably flunked him for the day—even Snape.

The cold didn’t seem to affect their Potions Master but his temper was as short as ever.

Harry’s trunk and wardrobe were still in their usual jumble. He certainly wasn’t going back to Privet Drive for Christmas. Professor McGonagall had come around the week before, making a list of students who would be staying for the holidays, and Harry had signed up at once. He didn’t feel sorry for himself at all; this would probably be the best Christmas he’d ever had. He was going to be alone in his dormitory, the others all gone home or visiting elsewhere, but alone at Hogwarts was loads better than home with the Dursleys around.

Draco had been appalled when he first heard that Harry was staying at school but Harry had reminded him that going home meant Muggles, and he’d quickly grimaced and agreed that Harry had made the right decision. Anything, in Draco’s mind, was better than Muggles.

Harry, thinking of the Dursleys, had to agree.

When they left the dungeons at the end of Potions, they found a large fir tree blocking the corridor ahead. Two enormous feet sticking out at the bottom and a loud puffing sound told Harry that Hagrid was behind it.

“Hi, Hagrid,” said Harry to the tree.

Draco made a sort of strangled sound like he was trying to swallow several words. Harry ignored him. 

“Hey there, Harry,” Hagrid panted from somewhere behind the tree. “Excited fer your holidays?”

“You bet,” said Harry. He grinned.

“Potter’s talking to a tree,” Goyle whispered.

Crabbe elbowed him. “Shut-up, you moron,” he hissed back, “it’s just that groundskeeper fellow, the big hairy one.”

“Oh,” said Goyle. “Right.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I swear, if you two were any dumber you’d be Squibs,” he muttered, disgusted.

Crabbe scowled. “I knew it wasn’t a tree,” he protested, but he said it quietly. Draco ignored him.

Hagrid shuffled sideways to peer around the edge of the tree he was holding. He blinked at the other three Slytherin boys. “Yer sure are hangin’ out with some interestin’ people, Harry,” Hagrid said, peering uncertainly at Draco.

“He certainly is,” Draco replied, eyeing Hagrid coldly.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Hagrid,” he said, edging in front of Draco, “you’ll be around over Christmas, too, right?”

“Oh, right,” said Hagrid cheerfully. “S’my home, isn’t it? Be a bit silly to go away for the holidays. Besides, dunno how everything’d get done if I weren’t here ter see to it. Dumbledore, he depends on me, you know,” he finished proudly. The tree slipped and he righted it with a muttered curse.

Draco watched, his slight smile almost a sneer. “Conversing with the foliage is fascinating and all, Potter, but do you mind?” he drawled coldly. “The rest of us sort of have better things to do.”

Hagrid gave Draco the hairy eyeball through the large pine’s branches. He muttered something into the needles that Harry couldn’t hear.

Harry glared at the other boy. “Bet you don’t,” he retorted.

Draco clicked his tongue. “We’ve got half-an-hour yet before lunch,” he said, eyeing the tree sideways. “I can certainly think of better ways to spend it than chatting with the servants.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply but got a mouthful of needles instead. Someone had shoved into him from behind, sending him staggering into the tree.

“Sorry, coming through, excuse us,” the assaulter said loudly.

Harry spat out needles and turned around. Weasley, smirking broadly, brushed roughly past, trailed by two other Gryffindors. Needles scattered everywhere.

Goyle started after them, fists clenched, but Draco shook his head. He nodded to the stairs.

Harry glanced over his shoulder and saw Snape coming up from the dungeons. The Potions Master paused to look down his long, hooked nose at all of them, expression unfathomable. He nodded at Draco, more curtly at the tree that was hiding Hagrid, and swept off down the hallway.

“Wish he was going home for Christmas,” Harry muttered.

Hagrid grunted. Draco raised an eyebrow impatiently.

“Anyway, Hagrid, I’ll see you around over holidays,” Harry finished quickly, waving goodbye. A burly arm emerged from the side of the tree and waved back.

Harry followed Draco, trailed as usual by Crabbe and Goyle. Goyle was still cracking his knuckles and glaring in the direction the Gryffindors had taken.

“You know what I heard?” Draco said, glancing after the retreating lions.

Harry, Crabbe, and Goyle all shook their heads, the other two a beat slower.

“I heard the Weasleys all have to stay here for the holidays because their parents can’t afford them coming home.” He smirked. “I think they just don’t want them around—who would?”

Crabbe and Goyle grinned and nodded. Harry had to agree that the Weasleys certainly were annoying, but he doubted they tormented their parents the way they did the Slytherins.

Probably.

Draco made a face. “Of course, that’s bad luck for you, Potter,” he said. “Stuck here with all of _them_ running around…ugh. I don’t know what’s worse, Muggles or Weasleys.”

Harry thought for a moment. “The Dursleys,” he said. “Definitely the Dursleys.”

The others snickered.

“Even if I have to hide in the common room the whole time and sneak out for meals around an ambush every day, it’ll still be better than being with the Dursleys,” Harry continued. “Gryffindors are annoying and all, but my Muggles are pretty much awful.” He made a face.

“You should hex ‘em when you get back,” Goyle suggested.

Harry grinned. “Bet I will,” he said. “Especially Dudley.”

“Make it a really nasty one,” Crabbe advised.

“The sort you’d use on a Gryffindor,” Goyle added.

“Ugh, I can’t stand them,” Draco complained. “Can you believe we have to share classes with the lot of them? I mean, bad enough we’re forced to interact with _that sort_ at all, but in _class_ even…”

All three of the other boys nodded. “At least it’s just Potions,” said Harry. “Well, and Flying.”

“I’d like to knock Weasley off his broom,” Draco said. “If only Hooch would leave us alone, but after that fat lump Longbottom took his tumble, she barely even blinks. Probably afraid he’ll break his stupid neck next time, like anyone would be sad…”

“Bet his dotty old gran would cry,” Goyle grinned.

“Her postage fees would drop a lot, though,” Harry pointed out.

They laughed and slouched against the railing that encircled the courtyard. Harry shivered in the wind and pulled his robes tighter. Crabbe swiped some snow off the rail and started pressing it into a ball.

“It’d certainly raise the intelligence level of the school if Longbottom were gone,” Draco observed. Harry looked sideways at Crabbe and Goyle and didn’t say anything. They nodded agreement with Draco, because they always did, and Harry had to fight back laughter.

Crabbe scanned the courtyard for a target. He grinned, nudged Goyle, and pointed to Dean Thomas, a tall Gryffindor boy who was in first year like them. Goyle nodded eagerly.

Crabbe launched his snowball and it smacked Thomas in the back of his head. The four Slytherins quickly ducked down behind the railing, sniggering into their hands. Thomas looked around, scowling, and wiped snow off his face.

“Good one, Crabbe,” Draco whispered. Harry nodded and gave the other boy a thumb’s up.

Crabbe smirked and started packing another snowball. Goyle joined in.

They slouched against the rail again and watched Thomas walk away, still frowning around in confusion for his unseen attacker.

Goyle selected the next target—a small Hufflepuff boy whose name Harry couldn’t remember—and both boys pelted him with their soggy ammunition.

Draco brushed snow off the railing with his sleeve so he could lean against it without getting damp. “Too bad Longbottom’s not out here,” he said, adding viciously, “he must be the most pathetic person at this sorry school.”

Harry frowned; he really liked Hogwarts. He didn’t have a chance to protest, though, because Draco wasn’t done.

“Of course, he is a Gryffindor,” the pale boy continued. “They’re all pretty horrid, but he may be the worst. Is there anything he doesn’t fail at?”

“Falling?” Crabbe offered.

Harry snorted. The others grinned. “Yeah,” said Goyle, chuckling.

“No, wait,” said Draco suddenly. “I was wrong, Longbottom’s not the worst—Granger is.” Harry frowned again. “What an awful know-it-all!” Draco continued. “I’ve never met anyone so annoying. ‘Pick me, professor, I know every answer,’” he said, in an obnoxiously shrill imitation of Hermione’s eager tones. Crabbe and Goyle snickered. “‘All I do is read because I don’t have any friends.’ I swear,” Draco continued, dropping back to his usual drawling manner, “what’s she trying to do? Everyone knows she’s Muggleborn, it doesn’t matter how much she memorizes the texts, she isn’t fooling anyone.” Draco’s face had curled up into a sneer of disgust. “It’s like she’s trying to play catch-up for ten years as a Muggle-raised idiot, and that’s impossible. If you’re not born to it you won’t ever really understand it, no matter how many facts you cram into your ugly, frizz-haired skull.”

He pronounced that final sentence with all the certainty of prophecy, Crabbe and Goyle nodding along even more vehemently than usual with their leader’s words.

Harry’s stomach felt funny, like there was something in there with wings that was trying to escape. “I grew up with Muggles,” he said quietly.

Draco squirmed. “Well, that—that wasn’t your fault,” he said quickly. “You were born a wizard, you weren’t—Dumbledore’s the one who shoved you off on Muggles when your parents, you know…” He cleared his throat. “He’s really lost it, Dumbledore, forcing you to grow up with Muggles,” Draco continued, his voice gone suddenly shrill. “It’s just inexcusable, doing that to any wizard, but especially _you_ , you’re Harry Potter, that’s just…anyway, well, those Muggles sound like the worst sort of torture I can imagine, but you were _born_ a _wizard_ , that’s the important part.” He spoke quickly and seemed unable to meet Harry’s eyes.

“My mum wasn’t,” Harry said, even more quietly.

The other three froze, Crabbe and Goyle both suddenly bearing a striking resemblance to deer caught by the headlights of a Muggle car. Draco looked panicky and paler than usual. “Wh—what?” he said. He looked around wildly, as if hoping for rescue.

“My mum, her parents were Muggles,” Harry said. “Snape told me. I mean, I guess it should have been obvious, what with my Aunt Petunia— _definitely_ a Muggle—but I hadn’t really thought about it before and…anyway, my mum was Muggle-born.” He felt very odd. He could tell that his face was flushed but his cheeks felt icy cold.

“Well, that’s…that’s not really what I meant…” Draco stammered. “I mean, Granger…she’s just, annoying, that’s all I was getting at…I didn’t mean, um, your mother, I’m sure, she was brilliant or whatever, that’s not, ah…”

“Your mum was a Mudblood?” Goyle asked, wide-eyed.

Harry thought about what Snape had said. He glared. “Don’t call my mum a Mudblood,” he said fiercely. Snape was wrong. Lily Potter wouldn’t have been ashamed of him. He’d make sure of it.

“Goyle!” Draco snapped. “Apologize to Potter!”

“But she—”

“You don’t say that about someone’s mother,” Draco scolded. “Now apologize.”

“But…” Goyle wilted under the shorter boy’s glare. “Sorry,” he muttered to Harry.

“No problem,” Harry said icily.

Goyle and Crabbe exchanged an identically blank look and a confused shrug. They glanced sideways at the other two boys then shuffled off a few steps where they hesitantly resumed their snowball throwing. Harry watched, no longer as amused as he had been. He still felt very strange.

He looked at Draco, who quickly looked away, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Draco muttered. He quickly became very interested in studying the stonework of the archway they were standing in.

Harry shrugged. “Whatever,” he said. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he felt pretty good. Still strange and fluttery, but good, like he’d just won a really nice prize or earned ten points for their house.

He decided that the best thing to do would be to throw some snowballs of his own.

After a few minutes Draco joined in and the four of them kept up the frozen ambuscade until lunch.

They were careful, though, to talk about other things.

 

 

The next morning Harry trudged out with everyone else to see off all the students who would be going home for the holidays. He grinned, watching them all struggle with their trunks; his hands were empty. Everyone loaded up into carriages that appeared to be pulled by invisible horses.

Draco seemed oddly subdued. He didn’t say anything when Hermione Granger waved a quick goodbye to Harry. Harry shrugged and waved back, watching out of the corner of his eye to see what his friends would do, but when Crabbe and Goyle looked to Draco for their cue he was staring fixedly in the opposite direction, as if he hadn’t seen. It was very odd.

Draco didn’t even bother to make fun of Longbottom when they all had to wait for the forgetful Gryffindor to run back into the castle for something. Crabbe stuck his foot out and tripped the boy on his return, sending Longbottom sprawling in the snow. Crabbe had to fake a great deal of surprised contrition to convince Professor McGonagall it had been an accident. Harry personally wouldn’t have bought it, but McGonagall was in a hurry trying to get everyone loaded up and off to the train in time and she clearly just didn’t want to be bothered dealing with the lot of them. She just made Crabbe help Longbottom haul his trunk up onto a carriage in apology and then moved on to the next set of students, chivvying everyone along impatiently. 

 “Have a good holiday!” Harry shouted, grinning. His friends waved back and the carriages trundled off. Harry thought he should have felt sad, watching everyone drive away while he stayed behind, but he didn’t. Leaving Hogwarts meant going back to Privet Drive.

As long as he was here, he was home.

 

 

Once the holidays started things were very quiet for Harry. He was the only one in his dormitory and the Slytherin common room was practically empty. He didn’t feel lonely, exactly, but it was strange to have so few people around. He was used to Hogwarts being full.

It was still more fun than being home at Privet Drive, though. He actually got presents, and there was a feast like Harry had never seen before, and even sitting with people that were basically strangers it was, all in all, the most cheerful Christmas that Harry had ever spent. He got a funny top hat out of a wizard cracker and perched it on his head at a jaunty angle. The few older Slytherins that had stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas were all nice to him, if distant. Harry tried very hard to keep all of their names straight.

He waved to Hagrid, who seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed his own Christmas feast, and thanked him for his present. Then, having nothing else to do, Harry walked around the hallways practicing his new flute very badly. He was still wearing the hat, with the rest of his party-favor prizes stuffed in the bulging pockets of his robes. He felt very full and happy.

Harry leaned on a windowsill and watched a lot of red-haired Gryffindor boys engaged in a brutal snowball fight out on the lawns. He wished, fleetingly, that he could go join the Weasleys, but knew he couldn’t, not even on Christmas.

Harry returned to the dungeons and his almost empty common room. He hung around the fire making silly small talk with the other Slytherin students and lost spectacularly at a game of Exploding Snap with two third years. The evening wound down and, after a supper of sandwiches, cakes, and trifle, Harry climbed back downstairs to his empty dormitory and pulled out the most puzzling gift he’d received that morning.

He didn’t know who’d sent it; the accompanying note had said only: _Your father left this in my possession before he died. It is time it was returned to you. Use it well._ The handwriting was narrow, loopy, and entirely unfamiliar. The closing salutation, _A Very Merry Christmas to you_ , gave no clue to the sender’s identity.

The item itself was just as anonymous: a pile of silvery, fluid cloth, softer than silk and light as air. Harry’s first thought was that it might be a magic carpet, but it seemed too flimsy for that and anyway, when he sat on it, no amount of wand-tapping or verbal commands had made it do anything at all. He would have felt very silly even trying, but fortunately he was alone in the first year boys’ dormitory, and it didn’t matter how silly he was because there was no one there to see.

Harry had thrown the mystery cloth on his bed like a thin, glimmering blanket and gone to the feast, leaving the strange gift behind to be thought of later. But now it was later, and he was no closer to any answers. Harry wondered who had sent it, and what it was, and why his father had had it.

He touched the silky cloth reverently and tried to picture his dad. He wondered what he was supposed to use it for. Harry pulled it off the bed and flung it over his shoulders like a large, trailing cloak. He looked down and gasped: he had completely vanished!

Harry stared, open-mouthed, at the nothingness where he knew his body was. He raised a trembling hand that he couldn’t see and touched his chest, which was likewise solid but invisible.

He sat like that for a long time until slowly a smile spread across his face.

He was _invisible_. Harry grinned, jumped up, and ran over to the mirror. He pulled the cloth over his head and saw, in the mirror, nothing at all. He spun around and danced a little and saw nothing. It was like he wasn’t there at all.

Harry laughed, no longer sleepy. He shoved his feet back into his slippers, cinched his bathrobe tighter around his waist—it took some fumbling, because he couldn’t see his hands or the sash—and climbed out into the chilly dungeon hallways.

He didn’t know where he was going, but it didn’t matter. He could go anywhere in this, anywhere, and Filch would never know. The whole of Hogwarts was open to him.

The castle was dark and empty and silent. Harry crept through it on soft, invisible feet. Excitement bubbled up like laughter in his throat and he clapped a hand that he couldn’t see over his mouth. He prowled the hallways, peeking in empty classrooms and cluttered closets. Feeling strange and bold he even walked up to the forbidden door on the third floor and pressed his ear to it. He heard a muffled snuffling sound from inside; that must be the horrifying three-headed dog Draco had seen.

“Merry Christmas,” Harry whispered to the animal, and laughed at his own recklessness. He walked away very quickly in case the dog barked, but there was no sound save for the faint whisper of silky cloth dragging over the flagstone floors.

Harry stayed out well into the night, wandering unseen through the school. He couldn’t stop smiling, although no one would have been able to see it.

 

 

Harry spent the next several nights wandering the halls in his father’s invisibility cloak. He took to carrying it around with him in his bag during the day. No one asked him why he was carrying his school bag when there were no classes, because none of his friends were there to care. Whenever Harry saw someone coming down the hallway he would duck into the nearest open door and fling the cloak over his head, then stand in the hall silently and watch them walk past. It gave him a giddy sense of power to know that while he could see them plainly, no one else knew he was there.

It was on Saturday, halfway through the holiday break, that Harry found the Mirror.

He was wandering the halls as usual, hidden under the cloak—he had quite nearly run into the Bloody Baron, and he didn’t know if the cloak worked on ghosts, but fortunately the spooky specter hadn’t turned around and Harry had backed out of the room very quietly and chosen a different hallway—and he had been peeking into the empty classrooms. He hadn’t been able to resist the sudden impulse to hide all of Professor McGonagall’s chalk, and only hoped that when term started again he’d be able to keep from laughing when she discovered its absence. With any luck, she’d blame the Weasley twins. People generally did, which didn’t seem to bother the two third-year troublemakers, whether they’d been behind the prank or not.

Flush with a heady sense of triumph, Harry had been skipping through the halls when a sudden noise made him duck sideways into an open door. He waited but no one went past; maybe he’d imagined it. Harry turned around to see which room he was in and noticed a tall mirror against the far wall. Harry quite liked looking at himself in mirrors and seeing nothing, so he wandered over to it.

The mirror was magnificent, as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet. There was an inscription carved around the top: _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._

It didn’t look like it belonged in the room, which appeared to be an unused classroom. The dark shapes of desks and chairs were piled against the walls, and there was an upturned wastepaper basket. Harry skirted it gingerly, careful not to let the trailing ends of his cloak brush against anything that might shift and make noise, and walked to the mirror. He stepped in front of it, grinning.

Harry had to clap his hands to his mouth to sop himself from screaming. He whirled around. His heart was pounding far more furiously than when he’d run across the Baron—for he had seen not only himself in the mirror, but a whole crowd of people standing right behind him.

But the room was empty. Breathing very fast, he turned slowly back to the mirror.

There he was, reflected in it, white and scared-looking, and there, reflected behind him, were at least ten others. Harry looked over his shoulder—but still, no one was there. Or were they all invisible, too? Was he in fact in a room full of invisible people and this mirror’s trick was that it reflected them, invisible or not?

He looked in the mirror again. A woman standing right behind his reflection was smiling at him and waving. He reached out a hand and felt the air behind him. If she was really there, he’d touch her, their reflections were so close together, but he felt only air—she and the others existed only in the mirror.

She was a very pretty woman. She had dark red hair and her eyes— _her eyes are just like mine_ , Harry thought, edging a little closer to the glass. Bright green—exactly the same shape, but then he noticed that she was crying; smiling, but crying at the same time. The tall, thin, black-haired man standing next to her put his arm around her. He wore glasses, and his hair was very untidy. It stuck up at the back, just as Harry’s did.

Harry was so close to the mirror now that his nose was nearly touching that of his reflection.

“Mum?” he whispered. “Dad?”

They just looked at him, smiling. And slowly, Harry looked into the faces of the other people in the mirror, and saw other pairs of green eyes like his, other noses like his, even a little old man who looked as though he had Harry’s knobbly knees—Harry was looking at his family, for the first time in his life.

The Potters smiled and waved at Harry and he stared hungrily back at them, his hands pressed flat against the glass as though he was hoping to fall right through it and reach them. He had a powerful kind of ache inside him, half joy, half terrible sadness.

Harry sank down in front of the mirror, wrapped in the cloak, and stared at his parents, at his family. There were tears on his cheeks but like the woman in the mirror—like his mother—he was smiling, too.

 

 

Harry woke up suddenly when sunlight hit him in the eyes. He sat up, bleary-eyed and blinking. His glasses had slipped off his nose in the night and he was very cold and stiff. He picked his glasses up and put them back on and froze. He remembered what had happened last night.

He looked up quickly, terrified that it had all been a dream, but the mirror was still in front of him and in it, his family still stood, watching him with sad smiles. Harry smiled back knowing that they could see him even under the cloak. A sudden thrill of fear ran through him and he looked around, but he was still covered by the cloak, had it wrapped around his shoulders like a blanket. He pulled it back over his head quickly, vanishing from sight but not from the mirror.

He grinned at his family and his stomach gave a sudden rumble. Harry squinted at the sun outside and wondered if he’d missed breakfast. He scrambled to his feet, wincing at the pins-and-needles feeling as his stiff limbs woke up. He took one last, long look at the mirror, drinking in the new, familiar faces, then tore his eyes away. “I’ll come  back,” he whispered, and hurried from the room.

Harry ran to his dormitory as fast as his stiff legs could carry him, threw on clothes, and raced to the Great Hall. He made it just in time to scarf down a quick handful of eggs and sausages, ignoring the teasing he got from two fifth years for sleeping so late, and bolted out the door again. His school bag banged at his hip and in it was stuffed his father’s invisibility cloak. As soon as he left the Great Hall he darted sideways into the nearest room and threw the cloak over his head. Now invisible, he made his way back to the room with the mirror.

He knew he was walking too fast, risking the flapping cloak exposing his feet, especially since it was daylight and anyone might walk by at any moment, but Harry couldn’t wait. He had to get back, had to see his parents again.

He rushed into the empty classroom and shut the door carefully behind him. Harry turned around and breathed a sigh of relief; the mirror was still there. He ran over to it, banging heedlessly into one of the stacked chairs, and dropped to the floor in front of the mirror. He absently rubbed his shin, smiling broadly. His family waved to him.

Harry pulled the cloak tighter around his invisible shoulders and sat, staring, at his mother and father and all their relations. He had never felt so loved—and yet, so alone.

 

 

Harry missed lunch completely, leaving only for dinner. He barely remembered to take the cloak off before he walked into the Great Hall. He scarfed his food as fast as he could, brushed past Hagrid with an absent wave, not hearing him clearly—something about coming down to see something, but Harry didn’t care, he had to get back to his family.

He took a quick detour to his dormitory and snatched a pillow off the nearest bed—Crabbe’s—and practically sprinted back upstairs. He flattened himself against the wall, inches from running full-tilt into Professor Snape, and held his breath. Snape paused, dark eyes narrowing, and looked around suspiciously. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth, trying not to pant. His lungs burned.

Snape stood there for what felt like forever. Harry wanted to move to adjust the cloak, make sure it was covering all of him, but he didn’t dare. He stood, frozen, against the wall. At last Snape gave a sharp shake of his head, his greasy locks flying violently, and walked on. Harry gasped, sucking down air in great gulps.

That had been too close.

He set out at a much reduced pace, cautious now about running into anyone else. He wasn’t doing anything wrong—he didn’t have to be back in his common room for hours yet, and there was nothing about sitting in empty classrooms or wearing invisibility cloaks that was specifically against the rules so far as he knew—but Harry felt, somehow, that if anyone knew what he was up to, they would try to stop him.

Besides, his family was a secret he didn’t want to share, not with anyone.

He made sure to close the door very carefully behind him and was extra quiet when he tiptoed over to sit in front of the mirror. He dropped the squashy pillow beneath him for a seat and settled the cloak neatly over his head. No one had seen him come in and there was nothing to stop him from staying here again all night with his family. Nothing at all.

Except—

“So—back again, Harry?”

Harry felt as though his insides had turned to ice. He looked behind him. Sitting on one of the desks by the wall was none other than Albus Dumbledore. Harry thought he’d checked the room to be sure it was empty, but somehow he had missed noticing the headmaster.

Harry looked down at himself, but he was still wearing the cloak, still invisible. There was no way Dumbledore could see him, no way, he had to be guessing—

Harry stood up quietly, holding his breath, careful to lift the pillow up with him and not let anything peek out the edge of the cloak. His eyes were fixed tightly on Dumbledore’s face so he saw the small, quiet smile. Harry froze.

“S-sir?” he whispered.

“Yes, Harry,” Dumbledore said, “I know you’re there.”

Harry pulled the cloak off. “H-how?” he stammered.

Dumbledore smiled, which did little to make Harry feel better. “I’m afraid that is magic a bit beyond a first year’s studies,” he said kindly. “Suffice it to say that I knew you had been here, and knew that you would be back.”

“But I—I didn’t see you,” said Harry. “I mean—”

“I don’t need a cloak to become invisible,” said Dumbledore gently. Harry sat back down. “So,” the headmaster continued, walking over to join Harry in front of the mirror, “I see that you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised.”

“I didn’t know it was called that, sir.”

“But I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?”

“It—well—it shows me my family—”

Dumbledore’s smile looked almost wistful. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I imagine it does.” He sat down next to Harry and looked in the mirror himself. “The Mirror of Erised,” he explained, “shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you—I imagine your Aunt and her husband and son are not among the faces you see before you?” the headmaster interrupted himself to ask.

Harry shook his head, unable to stop a look of disgust creeping onto his face.

Dumbledore smiled. “No,” he said, “I expected as much. Yet, by rights, they should be there, should they not? They are part of your family, after all.”

Harry squirmed. “Well…” he said.

Dumbledore chuckled. “But not,” he continued, “a part of your family you would much desire to see, or even acknowledge, am I right?”

Harry shrugged, feeling uncomfortable and mean. “No,” he admitted.

Dumbledore’s smile twitched slightly. “Then you see, Harry,” he said, “this mirror will give neither knowledge nor truth. You see what you _wish_ to see, not necessarily what _is_.”

Harry nodded slowly, pondering that. He hadn’t thought about the lack of Dursleys in the mirror before, but he certainly wouldn’t have wanted to see them there. Still, Aunt Petunia was his mother’s sister, so as Dumbledore said, by all rights…

“The happiest man on earth,” Dumbledore was still speaking, “would be able to use the Mirror like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is.”

“Because there wouldn’t be anything he’d desire that he wouldn’t already have, right?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore nodded. “Quite right, Harry,” he said.

Harry stared into the mirror, at the sight of his parents waving back at him. He wondered if he’d ever met anyone that happy, or if it was just orphans like himself who saw wonderful things in the mirror.

Dumbledore laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Men have wasted away before the Mirror of Erised, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible,” he said. Harry believed him. “The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry,” the headmaster continued gently, “and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever _do_ run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.” Dumbledore climbed to his feet. “Now, why don’t you pack that admirable cloak back up and find something more productive to do? I imagine there’s all sorts of mischief an enterprising boy could get into over the holidays around here, especially with such a useful artifact as that to assist him.” His blue eyes twinkled.

Harry climbed to his feet and stuffed cloak and pillow into his school bag. “Sir—Professor Dumbledore? Can I ask you something?”

“Obviously, you’ve just done so,” Dumbledore smiled. “You may ask me one more thing, however.”

“What do you see when you look in the mirror?”

“I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks.”

Harry stared.

“One can never have enough socks,” said Dumbledore. “Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn’t get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books.”

Harry nodded uncertainly and left, glancing back to see Dumbledore smiling sadly into the mirror. It occurred to Harry that Dumbledore might not have been quite truthful. But then, he thought, it had been quite a personal question.

 

 

It was too early to go to bed and Harry didn’t fancy having to talk to anyone in the common room; he felt quiet and funny inside, like he’d eaten too much cake, but empty, too. He took a lap of the hallways and then, unable to resist, peeked into the empty classroom again.

This time it truly was empty; there was just a blank spot on the wall to mark where the Mirror of Erised had been standing. Harry stared at the empty wall, feeling more alone than he ever had, then he shrugged and walked away. Probably Dumbledore was right, anyway, and he shouldn’t spend his time staring aimlessly into a mirror.

But that didn’t mean he should give up on his parents. Walking with renewed vigor, Harry hurried to the library. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of this before. He’d been meaning to go look his past up ever since that detention with Hermione Granger, but he’d kept getting distracted with homework and games. The holidays were the perfect time to bury himself in the library and find out who he was.

Harry was surprised to find the library occupied. True, it was emptier than he’d ever seen it before, but he hadn’t thought that there would be any students in there today but himself. Who went to the library over holiday?

But there were three Ravenclaw students and a Hufflepuff at one of the front tables, and a handful of other students scattered throughout the stacks; again, mostly Ravenclaws, but one of the boys in the Potions section was an older Slytherin whose name Harry didn’t know.

Harry felt awkward, looking himself up, and took the first book he found over to the far corner so that no one could see what he was reading. It didn’t help much, though; there was only a short paragraph about how He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had been vanquished by unknown means when he tried to murder the infant Harry Potter. His parents were mentioned as Voldemort’s final victims, but that was it, no details.

Harry pushed the book aside in disgust and returned to the shelves. He found a mind-numbingly dry treatise on the whole war and skimmed it eagerly, skipping over the details of Voldemort’s rise to power and reign of terror and heading straight for his defeat.

That told him a little more: Lily and James Potter had lived in Godric’s Hollow with their only son, Harry. They had gone into hiding shortly before their deaths, somehow tipped off that You-Know-Who was looking for them, but it hadn’t done any good. Voldemort had found them anyway, and killed them, and Harry had survived. He was the only person known to have ever survived a Killing Curse, which made him feel a little funny. His scar prickled and he rubbed it absently.

His parents had been some of the few people brave enough to stand against Voldemort, which must have been why he’d killed them. It made Harry very proud to think that his parents had been so heroic, but that was cold comfort for ten years without them at his side. He tried to be happy that his parents had been brave champions for the side of good, but he mostly just felt lonely. They might have died heroes, but they were still dead.

Harry read a little more but when Madame Pince shooed the students out to return to their common rooms, he decided not to bother throwing the cloak on so he could keep reading. He trooped out with everyone else, trailing the Slytherin potioneer at a distance so that he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, and went back to his dormitory. He walked past everyone else, declining the offer of an Exploding Snap rematch with an absent wave, and collapsed into his bed.

He stared at the green curtains over his head for a long time in the darkness feeling empty and alone, and wished that he wasn’t the only one in his dormitory tonight. He didn’t want to talk to anyone else, but it would have been nice to have some kind of company.

When he finally fell asleep, he was plagued by nightmares. Over and over again he saw his parents disappearing in a flash of green light, while a high voice cackled with laughter.

Harry woke, cold and sweating, and didn’t fall asleep again until a pale dawn lightened the bleak, gray sky.


	9. Fluffy

Harry was very glad when, a week later, the Hogwarts Express brought the rest of the students back. He was even looking forward to the resumption of his classes; homework would hopefully keep him too busy to have nightmares. He sat back and grinned while the other boys regaled one another with stories of their holiday exploits but when it came Harry’s turn to speak he kept it vague and simple, saying only that things had been quiet, the feast had been fun, and he hadn’t missed the Dursleys at all.

He didn’t want to talk about his parents, or the mirror, or his nightmares. He didn’t even want to share the cloak. It was his father’s cloak and he wanted to keep it to himself.

He told Draco, though, after the others had fallen asleep. Harry waited until Goyle’s snores masked his whisper and Theodore—who’d caught a cold—was wheezing quietly. Blaise had the bed farthest away and Crabbe was a heavy sleeper, so Harry figured it was safe to creep over to Draco’s bed and shake him awake. He shushed the other boy and beckoned him to follow.

The trooped upstairs to the empty common room, the other students all abed and ready for class tomorrow, and Harry shook out the long silvery cloth he’d carried up with him. The bewildered annoyance on Draco’s face vanished into wide-eyed shock. Harry grinned.

“That’s a—but that’s—how did you _get_ that?” Draco asked.

“Christmas present,” said Harry.

“But who would give you _that?_ ” Draco asked jealously, running the silky fabric through his fingers.

“Dunno,” said Harry. “The note wasn’t signed, but it said it used to be my dad’s.”

“Really?” the other boy exclaimed doubtfully.

Harry shrugged. Then he grinned and stepped back, pulling the cloak out of Draco’s grasp. “Watch this,” he said, and swung the soft fabric around him.

Draco’s jaw dropped. “Wow!” he gasped.

“Want to try it?” Harry asked, revealing himself again.

Draco nodded and snatched the cloak from Harry’s hands. He swirled the silvery fabric around himself and vanished from sight. “How do I look?” he asked from nowhere.

“Invisible,” said Harry.

They both laughed, then shushed each other. Draco pulled the cloak off and handed it back to Harry, who quickly balled it up. He didn’t think any of the slumbering students had heard them, but he didn’t want to risk it.

Draco was looking at the cloak with an oddly eager glint in his gray eyes. “You know what we could do with that?” he asked.

Harry shook his head.

A wicked grin spread over Draco’s pointed face. “We could go anywhere,” he said, “anywhere at all.” Harry nodded and opened his mouth to tell about his adventures over the holiday, but Draco was still speaking: “Even,” he said, “up to the third floor.”

Harry fell silent.

Draco was still grinning. “No way Filch will catch us in that,” he said excitedly.

Harry nodded. “Yeah,” he said. Then, quickly, “we should probably go back to bed. Don’t want to be late for the first day of classes,” he suggested. Draco shrugged and followed him back down the stairs to their dormitory.

Harry packed the cloak away quietly in his trunk, wondering why he wasn’t very keen on knowing that Draco watched him hide it. The other boy’s gray eyes glittered sharply in the darkness.

 

 

Even with the cloak Draco’s plan had to wait. The teachers welcomed them all back to Hogwarts with a massive load of homework, as if afraid that the students might have missed it over break.

Harry, for one, had not.

McGonagall, unfortunately, didn’t seem to have made much note of her missing chalk; she simply summoned it from its hiding place and carried on as if the inconvenience hadn’t even registered. Harry sighed. So much for his new career in pranking. Clearly it took more than the ability to move about unseen to compete with Peeves.

Harry took to avoiding being caught alone with Draco. The other boy was continually dropping hints that Harry determinedly ignored. He started going to bed early or lingering in the common room long after the others had retired, then rushing into bed and pretending to fall asleep instantly so that Draco couldn’t hiss and wake him up and suggest they pull the cloak out.

Harry was actually glad to be so busy with homework. It gave him an excuse to delay, and kept Draco occupied as well. Draco might not have particularly cared about school rules, but he did put in at least enough effort to scrape decent grades out of the teachers. Oddly, he seemed to try hardest in Potions, which was the class he probably could have flaked off in the most. Harry figured it was either because Draco actually liked the subject, or the teacher, and didn’t pry, having figured out that Draco was very proud of his languid, smugly uncaring demeanor and wouldn’t have liked being made to admit that it was at least in part an act.

Harry was just happy to be getting good marks, and wasn’t particularly fussed if people knew he worked for them. He thought fleetingly of Hermione Granger one day when he was trapped in the middle of a hideously long and complex Transfiguration essay; she would probably have been excellent to study with, so long as she’d be as willing to share her knowledge as she had been her blue fire.

Too bad she was in Gryffindor.

Harry had run into her a few times in the library. She usually sat alone at a table overflowing with books, although a few times Longbottom was with her. All the students had to go there for homework rather more often than Harry would have liked, and he was still curious about his parents and grabbing the odd minute here and there to flip through some promising books.

Whenever Hermione noticed him she waved and smiled but she always looked terribly busy so Harry never said more than “hello,” back. Besides, he was usually with Draco, and he knew better than to try and make the two of them interact. Oddly, though, Draco didn’t say much about Harry’s friendly behavior towards Hermione Granger; just sniffed and scowled and busied himself in his books.

Harry would have been happier about that if he hadn’t suspected that Draco was just trying to keep Harry in a good mood so he would pull his father’s cloak out and take them to the third floor corridor.

It wasn’t that Harry was afraid, or that the prospect of sneaking through the castle in the cloak again didn’t excite him, because it did. He just didn’t want to get caught, and knowing that Dumbledore could be hiding, invisible, anywhere he wanted to be, and could apparently find Harry even when he had the cloak on…

For some reason, even if he was batty, even if he’d stuck him with the Dursleyes for ten years, even if he was going senile, Harry felt as though disappointing Albus Dumbledore would be a terrible thing to do. The way he’d spoken to Harry about the mirror, like Harry was every bit as clever as a full-grown wizard, and how he’d seemed to understand and accept Harry’s desire for a family—it had made Harry suddenly like Dumbledore quite a lot.

Harry even told Blaise to shut up once when he was complaining about their headmaster. The shocked look on the unflappably elegant boy’s face had made Harry feel terribly smug and he’d walked out of the common room, smiling jauntily, strangely unworried about how the others would react.

When he came back from the library an hour later no one seemed to really notice, except for Blaise, who pointedly snubbed him. But Blaise had been acting coldly towards Harry ever since climbing down off the school carriages. Harry didn’t know what had changed over the holiday break but for some reason, he found he didn’t much care.

The snow had been replaced by endless rain. Everyone was still shivering when they went outside but now they were soaking wet, too. Herbology became a study in mud and the students slipped and slid their way down to the greenhouses and back up to the castle, dripping brown sludge behind them. Nobody complained louder than Pansy Parkinson, whose shrill voice could be heard lamenting the state of her hair and robes every time they had to step outside.

Even flying became miserable.

The students would slog out to their brooms, pry them out of the squelching mud, and try to squint through the misty haze enough to fly without running into each other. Draco finally got the chance to knock Ron Weasley off his broom but though he later claimed to have done it on purpose, Harry had seen enough surprise on his friend’s pale, pointed face when it happened that he didn’t think Draco had known the Gryffindor boy was there until they collided.

Weasley wasn’t the only one to make a wet, muddy splash of a landing. They dragged themselves back to the castle after Flying Lessons, cursing the rain and their heavy, sodden robes. Harry had to take his glasses off every few steps to wipe them clean of the accumulated mist but all he really succeeded in doing was smearing them with mud. Half-blind, Harry could barely make out the castle in front of him and if he hadn’t had Draco’s pale hair to follow he probably would have wandered off into the forest and never been seen again.

That would have made Snape happy. The Potions Master’s temper was shorter than ever and though Harry wasn’t on the receiving end as often as he’d once been, the occasional venomous tongue-lashing he did receive was more than enough to make Harry dread Potions Class.

He was very glad he wasn’t a Gryffindor. Longbottom and Weasley especially were favored targets of Snape, which Harry had to admit he didn’t think was entirely fair. It wasn’t Weasley’s fault his older brothers liked to cause trouble; so far, Harry hadn’t seen the younger Weasley step too far out of line, certainly not enough to earn Snape’s ire like that.

Of course, it wasn’t Longbottom’s fault, either; he clearly didn’t mean to be so appalling at Potions, he just failed at it like he failed at flying. Even having Hermione Granger so often at his side couldn’t keep the bumbling Gryffindor boy from occasionally melting a cauldron or blowing up a brew.

Harry felt bad for Longbottom when Snape yelled at him for his spectacular accidents, but he still laughed with everyone else. It was funny, especially when Snape was picking on someone who wasn’t Harry.

Draco figured that Snape was getting nastier because he was frustrated at not having gotten to whatever was hidden on the third floor yet. Harry figured he was probably right, and at last reluctantly agreed to pull the cloak back out. He’d put it off long enough that curiosity was once again winning over common sense and creeping up to the forbidden corridor in the dead of night was starting to sound like a lot of fun.

He just hoped they didn’t get caught.

 

 

Harry and Draco sat up very late that night in the Common Room, trying to act casual. Harry kept dropping things and forgetting not just the rules but which game he was trying to play. After the fifth time Harry mixed his cards wrong, Theodore gave up in disgust and went off to read by himself.  Harry tried to work on homework, and was slightly cheered when he noticed that Draco, who’d appeared to be diligently finishing his Charms essay, was in fact just doodling on the parchment.

Harry was glad he wasn’t the only one too nervous to concentrate.

At last the rest of the students trickled out. Crabbe and Goyle, for all that they tended to dog Draco’s every move, hadn’t seemed to suspect that there was anything special about tonight, but Harry hadn’t really expected them to. They weren’t very perceptive.

Blaise Zabini left last of all, stomping down the stairs in a huff after a whispered confrontation with Malfoy. He shot Harry a dark look before leaving at last, visibly offended. Draco ignored him and Harry was too preoccupied to care what the argument had been about.

As soon as the dormitory doors were shut, they were both on their feet, pulling warm jumpers over their heads—the castle hallways would be so much colder than their cozy common room—and shoving their shoes back on. Harry didn’t realize he was grinning until he saw that Draco was, too.

“Ready?” Harry asked, his voice wavering with a combination of excitement and nerves.

Draco nodded, looking pale and eager.

Harry extricated his father’s cloak from where he’d hidden it in his school bag and shook it out. The silvery cloth gleamed like water in the firelight. Harry threw it over the both of them. They checked to make sure their feet weren’t showing, but there was enough fabric to easily cover two small eleven-year-olds so long as they walked close together. They took a turn around the common room, just to be sure that they weren’t going to trip on the cloak or each other, then they slipped out through the vanishing stone doorway and into the dark, empty halls.

They climbed the stairs up from the dungeons, jumping at every noise and shushing each other’s nervous giggles. Every statue’s shadow looked like Filch, every breath of wind sounded like Peeves swooping down on them. Harry kept expecting Dumbledore to materialize in front of the two of them, shake his head in disappointment, and send them back to bed with detention.

Somehow they made it to the third floor undiscovered by man, cat, poltergeist, or headmaster.  

The hallway seemed to have grown longer, or maybe that was just because they kept tripping on one another’s unseen heels in their haste. Somehow it took forever to reach that forbidden door, locked tight with a monster behind it. Harry felt butterflies in his stomach that didn’t seem like fear. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so alive.

Harry grinned at Draco, who’d gone pale and solemn. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the lock. “Ready?” he asked Harry.

Harry swallowed hard and nodded, grasping his own wand in suddenly sweaty hands. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Do it.”

“Alohamora,” Draco said, and the lock clicked. The boys grinned at one another. “Easy,” said Draco with a smirk.

“You’d think they’d have made a better lock,” Harry said.

“Yeah.”

They stepped forward together and pushed the door open. It squeaked and Harry flinched. Then he froze, his mouth gone wide. Next to him Draco was suddenly very white. Harry stared at the thing in front of them.

He was looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous dog, a dog that filled the whole space between ceiling and floor. It had three heads, just like Draco had said. It also had three pairs of rolling, mad eyes; three noses, twitching and quivering in their direction; three drooling mouths, saliva hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs.

It hadn’t seen them, of course; it couldn’t, but it seemed it could smell them. The creature snuffled and growled in frustration. It was a lot larger than Draco had made it sound, and he hadn’t exactly skimped when describing its looming ferocity. Harry was amazed that Snape and Quirrell had survived their fight with the beast with as little injury as they had. His estimation of his teachers’ skill rose by bounds.

Under the cloak, invisible fingers fastened around Harry’s arm. “We…we should…” Draco whispered. He cleared his throat. “Under…under its feet,” he said.

Harry tore his eyes away from the gigantic triple fangs. The dog only had the ordinary four legs, although they were larger than any dog’s should ever be. Under its feet there was a trap door.

Harry stared. “That must be where it is,” he whispered. He couldn’t see Draco, but he could feel him nodding.

“Let’s go.” The invisible fingers tugged him forward. Harry glanced up nervously at the dog.

That was what saved them. The dog snarled and Harry saw the leftmost head lunge down. He yelped and threw himself backwards, dragging Draco along with him. They hit the floor and the dog’s fangs closed inches from where their heads had been. Harry could feel its hot, smelly breath through the thin cloth of the cloak. Draco screamed.

They scrambled to their feet, fighting the invisible fabric, and darted for the door. A loud SNAP at their heels wrenched the cloak away. They kept running.

They didn’t stop until they ran flat out into Professor Quirrell, bowling him over. The three of them sprawled akimbo on the flagstones. Quirrell yelped and clutched his head.

“S-sorry, professor,” Harry said, stammering as badly as the teacher usually did.

The three of them struggled upright, Quirrell looking pale and furious. He angrily ignored the hand Harry offered to help him to his feet. “What—are—you—doing?” Quirrell demanded. He yanked his ever-present turban back into place.

Harry stepped backwards. Draco shrank down behind him. “We were—ah—just—”

But Quirrell didn’t want to hear whatever excuses Draco was going to come out with. “Quiet!” he snapped, not stuttering at all. It seemed that rage had countered his usual nerves.

The Slytherin students in front of him quailed. Quirrell looked over their heads down the hallway. Harry realized that they’d left the door open. There was a low rumbling noise that Harry hadn’t noticed before but that had to be coming from the monstrous dog, growling at being denied its prey. The cloak was still there, with the monster.

Harry’s heart sank. His dad’s cloak…

Professor Quirrell looked back down at Harry and Draco. He was so furious he was twitching. It was a different kind of twitching than his usual nervous spasms. There was nothing funny or pathetic about Quirrell now. His eyes gleamed red in the reflected light from his raised wand.

“Detention!” he snapped. “Twenty points!” His jaw worked like he wanted to say more.

Harry and Draco gaped. Draco opened his mouth to protest. Harry stomped on his foot.

“Sorry, professor!” he said again. It was very hard to meet Quirrell’s eyes. They still looked red.

“What—were—you—doing?” the Dark Arts professor demanded.

Harry opened his mouth but this time it was Draco who trod on _his_ foot to make him keep quiet. “We were just trying to prank the Gryffindors,” Draco whined.

Harry gasped at the lie. Draco hung his pale head, as if in shame. “We’re sorry, we know we shouldn’t, but Weasley…”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Quirrell snarled. “There’s no excuse for wandering the c-c-corridors at this hour,” he continued venomously. He didn’t look any less angry, but his stutter was back and the red glow from the wandlight had left his eye. “Esp-p-pecially up here,” he stammered. “It’s t-t-too d-d-d-dangerous.” He frowned at them.

“We’re sorry,” Draco said in an uncharacteristically small voice. “We were just trying to get Weasley and Longbottom into trouble…we didn't mean anything by it...” He was still looking at his feet. Harry quickly ducked his head as well, trying to act like his friend’s story wasn’t new to him.

“No! Excuses!” Quirrell hissed. “Get to b-b-bed right n-n-n-now!”

They took the dismissal eagerly, sprinting out of there before the professor could change his mind. They clattered down the stairs, barely remembering to jump the trick one in time, and bolted through their common room door. They collapsed, panting, on the couches.

When they could breathe again, they sat up, shivering in the warm common room despite the sweat on their faces. Harry and Draco stared at each other, but there was nothing to say after all of that. Draco shrugged jerkily, stood up, and climbed down the stairs to bed. He still looked pale and he wavered a little, as if his legs were trembling. Harry sat there for a while longer, feeling miserable.

He had lost his dad’s cloak. The only thing he had from his father, and now it was gone, abandoned up there, probably being shredded by that monster…

Harry had never felt worse in his life.

 

 

The day of the detention dawned rainy and miserable. Harry was certain that nothing could drag his spirits any lower. Even Goyle’s seemingly heartfelt offer to go give Professor Quirrell a “talking to” on Harry’s behalf did nothing to cheer him up, although on any other day the resulting lecture from Theodore on behavior inappropriate to academia would have been highly amusing.

But Harry had lost his dad’s cloak. The one and only thing he had from his father—aside from unruly hair and weak eyesight—and now it was gone.

Even subdued as they were by the weather, his fellow Slytherins were too cheerful and energetic a lot for Harry to deal with today. He walked out of the common room and wandered aimlessly until he passed the wide front doors. They stood open and the gray, muddy lawns rolling away under the haze of a continuous drizzle looked just as bleak and dour as Harry’s mood. Not bothering to go back for his cloak or coat, he set out, shivering, across the colorless grass.

Without Harry being aware of it his feet led him to Hagrid’s.  

He started to turn back. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone right now, not even Hagrid, but he was too slow. A big, burly shape lumbered around the corner of the small wooden hut and said, “all righ’ Harry?” Hagrid’s whole face—what little of it that was visible above his bristly beard—lit up, and his black eyes beamed cheerfully.

Harry forced a weak smile in return.  “Yeah,” he lied, “great.”

Hagrid grinned. “Yer got time for a spot o’ tea? I was just about ter take a break, yeh can join me.”

“Sure,” said Harry, “thanks.” He trudged miserably after the cheerful gamekeeper, managing to make interested-sounded grunts while Hagrid talked about squash and unicorns. Harry wasn’t listening.

He followed Hagrid into the crowded hut, noting that with Fang sleeping in a puddle of drool on an oversized chair in the corner, things seemed a lot quieter than usual. The boarhound whimpered excitedly and his paws shuffled, but he didn’t wake up. Whatever dream he was having was clearly better than spending time with Harry.

Harry sat down at the table, shivering a little in his wet jumper, and watched in a miserable half-stupor while Hagrid tidied things up by the simple expedient of sweeping one huge arm across the cluttered table and knocking everything to the floor with a clatter and, in the case of something that might have been a sock and might have been a dead snake, a soft, heavy thump. He winked at Harry who managed a small grin in response. He figured that Hagrid had only done that in order to elicit a smile from him, so he felt obligated. Ordinarily he’d have greatly appreciated the humorous logic in that sort of cleaning—and especially at imagining the look on Aunt Petunia’s face if he ever employed the method at Privet Drive—but not right now.

Hagrid turned to the hearth and stirred up the small fire so he could put the large copper kettle on to heat. Then he rummaged in the cupboard, coming out at last with a plate of heavy rock cakes, talking cheerfully at Harry all the while.

Harry barely heard him. His green eyes went glazed and unfocused and he stared into the crackling fire without seeing it. He had lost his dad’s cloak…

“Somethin’ wrong, Harry?” Hagrid asked, plopping down two very large, somewhat chipped mugs in front of him.

“No,” said Harry listlessly.

Hagrid nodded. “Only yer don’t look too good,” he continued gently. “Upset over sommat, maybe?” Harry shrugged. “D’yeh want ter talk abou’ it?” Hagrid asked. Harry looked up and met the gamekeeper’s kindly gaze, his own eyes swimming. Hagrid smiled encouragingly. “Maybe I can do somethin’ ter help, yeah?”

Under Hagrid’s tender interrogation Harry broke down at last. He burst suddenly into sobs, startling the large gamekeeper and causing him to spill tea across the table. “Harry!” he exclaimed, reaching forward.

It all came pouring out in a garbled, disjointed flood. Harry told his large friend everything that had been bothering him for weeks, from his mother and Hermione and Mudbloods to lonely dormitories and missing mirrors, while Hagrid patted him on the shoulder and offered clumsy but heartfelt, half-heard comfort. Fang snorted, blinked, and walked over to put his head in Harry’s lap. It was wet, but oddly comforting to have the boarhound drooling on his knee.

Harry finally launched into the heart of the matter with a tearful lament over the lost cloak and sobbed a half-coherent accounting of where it had gone and what had taken it.

At that point Hagrid interrupted, exclaiming, “Fluffy!”

Harry gaped at him.

“Yer talkin’ abou’ Fluffy,” Hagrid said again. “That’s the name o’ the dog, I mean.”

“You…you know that monster’s name?” Harry asked, shocked out of his tears. He sniffled and wiped his nose crossly, annoyed at himself for acting a cry-baby in front of Hagrid.

“Fluffy ain’t no monster!” Hagrid retorted, affronted.

“No monster—Hagrid, he’s got three heads!”

“Course he does,” Hagrid said stoutly. “Wouldn’t be much of a three-headed dog if he didn’t, would he?” Hagrid shook his head at such a silly idea.

Harry blinked. “You know there’s a giant, three-headed dog in the castle, and you’ve named him Fluffy?” he asked with disbelief.

“Course I know he’s there,” Hagrid replied, “I put him there, didn’t I?”

Harry stared.

“Dumbledore asked me to help guard the—well, the you-know-what from vault you-know-which,” Hagrid said proudly. “So I gave him Fluffy.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t know what, actually,” he pointed out.

Hagrid sniffed. “And yer shouldn’t, neither,” he said firmly.

Harry shrugged. It had been worth a try, even if he couldn’t much bring himself to care just now what it was the monster was guarding. More important to Harry was what it had taken from him.

Hagrid drummed his fingers on the table, eyeing Harry seriously. “So yer sayin’ that yer dad left yeh somethin’ special—”

“An Invisibility Cloak,” Harry interrupted. “Someone gave it to me at Christmas, but they didn’t say who they were. I don’t suppose you—?”

Hagrid shook his head. “Nah,” he said, “wasn’t me.”

Harry slumped. “Well, it doesn’t matter now,” he muttered. “I’ll never see it again, anyway.”

“Course yeh will!” Hagrid replied stoutly. “Matter o’ fact, we’ll go get it right now.”

Harry stared at him. “Go _get_ it?” he repeated, dazed.

Hagrid nodded, beaming. He stood up, knocking against the table and sending several heavy rock cakes rolling away across the floor. He didn’t seem to notice. “Right,” Hagrid said, “come on then.”

Harry shrugged and came.

 

 

 

Harry followed Hagrid up to the third floor of the castle. They went by circuitous, lightly traveled routes, Hagrid peering around as if expecting someone to appear around a corner at any moment and send them both off to detention, never mind that he was no student.

“O’ course I’m allowed up here, Harry,” he kept repeating as they neared the forbidden door. “Someone has ter look after Fluffy, don’ they? But still…bit of a nasty one, Filch, innit he? Always sets that cat o’ his ter follow me, anytime I’m in the castle…don’ see her now, though…Well, anyway…”

Harry nodded and said nothing. He was no more eager to run into the caretaker than Hagrid was, and he certainly didn’t want the two of them to bump into any professors. What if they asked Hagrid what the two of them were doing there, and Hagrid answered?

Harry just knew that he’d never see his father’s cloak again if any of the teachers found out he had it—any of them save Dumbledore, of course, who knew and didn’t seem worried. But Dumbledore…he was different. Mad, probably, like Draco said, but Harry liked the headmaster anyway. He seemed special, somehow, like he knew everything you were afraid to admit and liked you anyway, or something like that. And he might have been odd—extremely odd—but his blue eyes were impossibly kind and twinkled with very comforting amusement.

Yes, Harry thought that mad or not, Dumbledore was well worth having at Hogwarts.

He just made sure to keep that thought to himself when he was with his housemates, all of whom seemed to feel otherwise about their headmaster.

But it was the other professors who worried Harry now, them and Filch. Quirrell, especially, had him nervous. He’d already caught Harry up here once; Harry had the detention in a few hours as a reminder. If he spotted Harry and Hagrid lurking around up here…

Well, for some reason, Harry felt like a detention would be the least of his worries.

But they made the door without discovery, Hagrid fishing a heavy key out of his pocket to open the thick wooden panel. Harry cringed back behind him, not at all eager to face that giant, three-headed monster again. But Hagrid strode forward unhesitatingly.

“Afternoon, Fluffy,” he said cheerfully, digging in his pockets again.

The dog lifted itself to a standing position, looming over even the extraordinarily tall Hagrid, and started to growl. Harry grimaced, ready to grab the large gamekeeper and try futilely to drag him away, but Hagrid still wasn’t fussed. He hummed casually to himself while he rummaged in his heavy overcoat, at last pulling out a wooden flute that looked much like the one he’d given Harry for Christmas.

Hagrid put the hand-carved instrument to his lips and began to play. The cheery tune sounded impossibly loud and Harry glanced over his shoulder, certain that someone would come running up at any moment to discover the source of the noise. Then he looked back and saw an amazing sight:

Fluffy—the great, fearsome beast—gave a great, fearsome yawn, first with one head, then another, then the third. The dog settled down slowly, snuffling happily, and yawned again, lazily blinking its eyes. Hagrid walked right over to the monster and scratched behind one of its three sets of ears, still playing one-handed. The tune suffered a bit, but the dog didn’t seem to mind the tonal shift.

Then Fluffy gave a great, bone-shaking snore, making Harry jump nearly out of his skin, and the dog flopped sideways on the floor, asleep. Hagrid winked at Harry but said nothing, as he was still occupied with the flute. The dog snuffled happily, enjoying its dreams the way a smaller, one-headed, non-monstrous animal would. Harry stared.

Hagrid stepped forward, nudging Fluffy’s great twitching limbs aside with his heavy boots, casually rearranging the fearsome monster without the slightest twinge of fear or worry. Harry cringed for him, certain that at any minute Fluffy would wake and try to take Hagrid’s leg off in retaliation, but the monster slept on. Hagrid bent down, hauling something up off the floor—he had to tug sharply to free the last edge of it from Fluffy’s great bulk. Then he bundled it up in one hand, the other still picking out notes on the flute, and stepped backwards towards Harry, who had lingered at the door.

“There yer are then, Harry,” Hagrid said and grinned, then quickly stuck the flute back into his mouth.

Harry took the bundle, his mouth hanging loose with awe. It was the cloak. He shook it out, the long, fluid fabric still rustling like silken water. Harry inspected the soft cloth carefully but could find no holes or tears, not even any crumpled bits where large teeth had gnawed it. Aside from being a bit dusty, and covered with a thick skein of drool, the cloak was miraculously unharmed.

Harry gaped.

“There yer are,” said Hagrid again, beaming. “No harm done. Fluffy just wanted a bit o’ somethin’ ter play with, tha’s all. He wouldn’ harm a fly, not Fluffy…”

Fluffy stirred, growling noisily in his sleep, and Hagrid quickly resumed his flute playing.

Harry didn’t believe him for an instant, but he thanked Hagrid for returning the cloak.

“Ah, no trouble at all,” Hagrid replied, waving one large hand dismissively. “Yeh run along if yer like, I’m gonna stay and visit with Fluffy for a bit.”

Harry nodded. “Okay,” he said. “You, ah, have fun…”

“Yer welcome to stay if yeh want ter,” Hagrid offered eagerly, quickly continuing with the flute when the massive form behind him began to twitch and grumble at the silence.

“Oh, no—no thanks,” Harry said quickly. “I better get back, actually. I have revision to do, and that detention later…”

Hagrid nodded cheerfully but this time he didn’t dare stop playing long enough to speak. Harry smiled at him, trying uneasily to ignore the slumbering monster, and crept backwards, holding the bundle of invisibility cloak tightly. Hagrid waved and Harry managed a quick jerk of one hand in response and walked faster. “Thanks again,” he called.

Hagrid winked, grinned, and stepped into the room with Fluffy, kicking the door shut behind him.

Harry shook his head, certain that the next time he saw Hagrid, the tall gamekeeper would be short an arm or leg, or worse. If anyone at Hogwarts was mental it was Hagrid, settling down for a visit with that thing…

But Hagrid could handle himself, surely. He didn’t seem worried, at least, so Harry tried not to be, either. Hagrid knew what he was doing, Harry told himself firmly, and shoved the matter as far out of his mind as he could.

To distract himself he shook the cloak out again. He beamed at the sight, filthy as it was. His dad’s cloak…

Harry paused and looked around, suddenly feeling like he was being watched. He looked around but there was no one there. “Professor Dumbledore?” he whispered, remembering what the headmaster had said about not needing a cloak to turn invisible, but no one answered.

Harry shivered. He threw the cloak on so no one would see him up on the third floor by the forbidden door. He didn’t want to get Hagrid in trouble for bringing him up there, after all, and he certainly didn’t want to get in any more trouble himself.

Besides, he really liked being invisible, and he’d been certain that he’d never be able to wear his dad’s cloak again. He thought he’d lost it forever and, now he had it back, couldn’t help but put it on again right away. Harry grinned widely even though no one could have seen it and stole back down to the dungeons, unseen and silent.

Suddenly, detention didn’t seem like such a bad thing, after all. 


	10. Defense Against the Dark Arts

Harry slipped through the secret stone door and froze, scanning the room. No one seemed to have noticed that the wall had just opened for nothing. He grinned, hidden beneath his father’s invisibility cloak, and sauntered unseen across the room. He fought down the giddy sense of excitement that was threatening to bubble up out of him as wild laughter. All his housemates in the room, and none of them could see him.

Harry planned to creep through the common room undetected, slip down to the dormitories, pack the cloak away safely, and emerge as if he’d been there all along. He practiced a blank, puzzled expression; he intended to act confused and innocent when everyone asked how he’d returned without them noticing him coming in. Draco, he was sure, would know immediately how Harry had passed unseen, and he couldn’t wait to see his friend’s face when he figured out what it meant.

Harry spotted Crabbe and Goyle tucked in a corner, trying to puzzle out their homework. Harry had a feeling that their debate over McGonagall’s assignment was soon going to turn into a shoving match. It wouldn’t be the first time. Harry looked around for the rest of his friends. Draco was sprawled on one of the long couches, idly flipping through his Potions book. Blaise Zabini sat perched, arms folded and scowling, on the arm at the opposite end.

“—just don’t understand why,” Blaise was saying grumpily. “He acts like a Muggle-born! And, I mean…his mother was a _Mudblood_ ,” he whispered with a grimace.

Draco’s response was a scathing glance over the top of his book. “No, really?” he said dryly. “I had no idea.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Blaise muttered.

“No?” Draco asked, clearly disinterested in the answer.

“Well I knew he wasn’t a pureblood, obviously,” Blaise replied, “I just didn’t know it was… _that_ bad. I mean…his _mother?_ ”

Draco smirked. “As opposed to your mother’s—”

“Don’t,” Blaise interrupted fiercely. “Don’t you say _anything_ about my mother Malfoy, I’m warning you…”

“Sorry,” said Draco, not sounding it.

Harry smothered a laugh and moved closer, curious.

Blaise sulked for a moment and Draco ignored him, clearly as bored with the conversation as he was with his book. He glanced over at the door and scowled, as if he was waiting for someone who was running late. He looked straight through Harry, who barely stopped himself from speaking, remembering at the last moment that he was hidden under the Cloak.

“Okay, but _why?_ ” Blaise asked again, nearly whining.

Draco put his book down with an exasperated sigh. “Because father wanted me to get close to him, all right?” he snapped. “So I’ve done so.”

Harry suddenly felt cold and didn’t know why.

“Whatever for?” said Blaise, his face screwed up in disgust.

Draco shrugged. “Well, being seen with Potter, that will make everyone sit up and take notice, won’t it?” he said mildly. “The Ministry can’t very well keep bleating about our supposed ties to the Dark Lord when we’ve befriended the boy who defeated him, can they?”

Blaise frowned. “I suppose that makes sense,” he said.

“I rather thought so,” Draco said shortly. “Now if you’re done questioning my motives…?”

Harry didn’t hear Blaise’s reply. He was already backing away from the other two boys in silent horror. He finally broke and ran, stumbling, down the stairs to his dormitory.

He ripped the cloak off and threw it haphazardly in his trunk, suddenly miserable again and not at all happy to have it back. Harry threw himself on his bed and lay there, staring blankly at the ceiling with eyes that burned.

He’d been wrong, earlier, when he’d been certain that nothing could make him feel worse than losing his dad’s cloak.

Being invisible was horrible.

 

 

When he joined Draco for the long, dreary walk to Quirrell’s office, Harry could hardly bring himself to look at the other boy. Did everything in his life have to turn out rotten? It seemed like every shining, wonderful thing Hogwarts offered went wrong somehow. Harry was starting to wonder if he belonged here at all.

Even Privet Drive was starting to seem not so bad. At least there Harry _expected_ things to be miserable. Having bad things happen at Hogwarts…it somehow made it hurt more.

Draco didn’t seem to notice that anything was wrong, though. He must have taken Harry’s morose silence and terse, monosyllabic responses as general mopiness caused by the combination of lost cloak and imminent detention. He kept up a drawling, running commentary on the unfairness of the whole situation: their punishment, the lost points, the horrible nonsense task that Quirrell no doubt had in store for them, how affronted his parents would be when they heard he’d gotten a detention, what a shame it was they’d lost the cloak—on that last count, at least, he was breezily sympathetic, like one would expect of a friend.

Draco didn’t know that Harry had heard him, and Harry couldn’t bring himself to tell.

He just trudged along next to the pale boy he’d thought was his best friend, barely hearing him. When they arrived at the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher’s room, Harry’s spirits couldn’t sink any lower, not even when he saw Quirrell scowling down at him in turbaned, trembling wrath.

“Well b-b-boys, here we are,” Quirrell stammered.

“Yes, sir,” they replied tonelessly.

Quirrell sniffed, twisting his hands. The expression on his pale face was strangely unreadable and the look in his eyes made Harry very uncomfortable.

“C-c-come along, then,” he ordered after an awkward pause. The two Slytherins followed, both of them staring at the floor rather than up at their turbaned professor. Harry rubbed at his head, which was starting to ache.

Quirrell set them to their task with many a stammer and tremor. Draco had been right, it was tedious indeed: they had to clean out all the rubbish that was cluttering up the classroom. There had been, over the years, quite a lot of Defense Against the Dark Arts professors—it sounded like Hogwarts got a new one every year—and they usually seemed to leave in something of a hurry. Thus, they tended to leave things behind, and the discarded items built up in closets and cupboards, shoved aside and then ignored by each subsequent teacher.

Quirrell himself, it turned out, had only taken over the post near the end of last year when the previous professor had suddenly come down with a mysterious illness. This would be his first full year as the Defense teacher and he hadn’t gotten around to sorting out the classroom yet.

That would be their job: clean out all the old junk and catalog it so that Quirrell could decide what to do with it all—what got thrown out, what was useful, what belonged elsewhere, and so forth. At first they’d been excited (Harry in spite of his misery; who knew what incredible, illicit things could be found cluttering up a Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom?) but it very quickly became clear that the most interesting thing in the boxes and trunks they were sorting through was a pair of old socks that sang ribald ballads when you poked them.

Quirrell spoke nervously while they worked, stammering out the story of how he used to teach Muggle Studies (Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust) but had, a few years ago, taken the term off to go explore the world, just like Hagrid had said, and when he’d returned he’d decided that his old subject was boring (Draco agreed with a disdainful sniff; Harry, who had grown up with very uninteresting Muggles himself, couldn’t dispute the idea), and had requested a transfer from Dumbledore. Last year when the professor became indisposed, he’d been given the chance and—

Quirrell abruptly fell silent with a muffled cough. Harry looked up, but the professor was even paler than usual and had started trembling violently, as if the idea of his current subject was more than he could bear. Harry shrugged and turned back to his sorting. The broken quills went in the pile of obvious rubbish, but he wasn’t sure about the cracked self-boiling teapot; he put that in with the singing socks.

Draco tried to start up conversation a few times but Harry just grunted in reply and eventually the other boy gave up, annoyed, and they both focused on their monotonous task in silence. Harry rubbed his forehead; he was definitely getting a headache. He looked at the large pile of junk they still had to sort and sighed. This was going to take forever.

Harry was just reaching for what looked like a very old music box when the door slammed open. Quirrell yelped. Harry jerked back with a start, both he and Draco turning to stare at the interruption.

It was Snape, standing in the doorway and looking murderous. The Potions Master’s black eyes flicked from the students to Quirrell and back again. He scanned the piles of junk coldly and his pale face hardened.

Quirrell was stammering a question but Snape ignored him, striding straight towards where his two students sat surrounded by the detritus of what seemed like hundreds of professors’ abbreviated tenures. His robes billowed out like black wings and Harry thought that the Potions Master had never looked so ominous, which was saying something. He reached towards Harry who scrambled backwards, but Snape just picked up the music box. Quirrell went silent.

Snape lifted the carved box and held it close to his face, studying it sharply. He drew his wand and tapped the clasp twice; a spark of red light shot off into the air. There was a horrible grating noise but the box remained unchanged. Snape turned around very, very slowly to face Quirrell, who was trembling more than ever.

“An interesting punishment,” Snape said neutrally.

“J-j-just m-making use of the boys’ t-t-t-time to get the classroom s-s-sorted, S-s-s-severus,” Quirrell replied, cringing. “Lots of ru-ru-rubbish in here from all the p-p-p-previous p-p-p-professors…”

“So I see,” said Snape icily. He tapped the box again. It gave off another spark, making Quirrell twitch. “Some of it Cursed, it seems,” he added mildly. “Why for instance, it looks to me that were someone to open _this_ box unawares—” his gaze flashed momentarily to Harry “—it might well have proved fatal.” Snape’s thin lips curled in a small smile. “Certainly it would be… _unpleasant_ , at the least, to encounter such Dark Magic unexpectedly.”  

Draco and Harry both gasped. Quirrell’s pale eyes glanced over at the boys, then quickly darted away again. “It—it’s d-d-deplorable,” he stuttered breathlessly, “how c-c-careless some of the p-p-p-previous p-p-professors were—”

“And it would have been truly tragic if the boys had been unfortunate enough to come across anything dangerous, wouldn’t it?” Snape sneered.

“Y-yes,” stammered Quirrell, “t-t-tragic…”

“Makes this an awfully risky task for first years, don’t you think? Sorting through a Dark Arts classroom?”

“D-d-defense _Against_ the D-d-d-d-Dark Arts, S-s-Severus,” Quirrelly clarified quickly.

“Of course,” drawled Snape. “I meant that, of course.” He paused and smiled unpleasantly. His cold eyes were fastened fixedly on Quirrell’s shifting, flickering ones.

Snape stepped forward slowly, stalking his way across the classroom towards the cowering figure of Professor Quirrell. “Still, it is a strange assignment for such inexperienced students. Unless you’ve covered these sorts of advanced curses already?” he asked, idly curious and surely not expecting an affirmative answer. At any rate he didn’t give Quirrell a chance to reply, continuing softly, “I imagine that parents might be less than impressed with such recklessness from a professor, should they learn about it…”

“My father certainly won’t stand for this.” Draco, looking pale and shaken, spoke up as quickly as if it had been on cue. “Once I write to him…”

“Th-that hardly seems n-n-necessary,” Quirrell demurred shakily. “I d-d-d-do think you two have b-b-both served q-quite enough d-d-d-detention already,” he stammered. “N-n-no need for any f-f-further p-p-p-punishments, I d-don’t think.” He swallowed audibly.

Draco sniffed. “I should think not,” he snapped haughtily, obviously trying to look like their near encounter with a Cursed box hadn’t frightened him. Harry tucked his hands into his pockets to make sure he wasn’t going to accidentally touch anything else. If Snape had come in just a few seconds later… He swallowed nearly as hard as Quirrell.

“W-w-wouldn’t have thought a p-p-p-professor w-w-would have left anything d-d-d-dangerous just l-l-lie around…” Quirrell stuttered shrilly. He seemed unable to tear his gaze away from Snape’s steadily advancing form but he couldn’t quite meet the Potions Master’s eyes either and blinked ceaselessly.

“No,” said Snape softly, “that does seem odd…”

“Y-y-you can r-r-r-run along now, M-m-m-malfoy…P-p-p-p-p…Potter.” Quirrell tried to smile at the Slytherin students, his face twitching into a spasming grimace that fled quickly under the icy gaze of Severus Snape.

Draco and Harry scrambled to their feet, as eager to escape the tedium of their detention as they were the potential dangerous it had unexpectedly entailed. They bolted for the door with hurried goodbyes.

Harry glanced back once to see Snape stepping in close to Quirrell like a great, threatening black bird as the door swung shut behind them.

 

 

They hurried back to their common room. Harry kept his hands jammed deep in his pockets, trying very hard not to think about how close he had come to picking up that box and opening it to see if it worked. Just a few more seconds, and…

It occurred to Harry that he probably owed Snape his life.

“Well,” said Draco, who was remarkably sanguine about their close call, now the danger had passed, “that was brilliant.” He smirked. “I thought Snape was going to kill him.”

“I think Quirrell thought so, too,” Harry said quietly.

Draco sniffed. “Would have served him right, the blithering fool…I swear, just because we have a dunderhead for a headmaster is no excuse for incompetent professors, but no, instead we get the stuttering ninny who’s so scared of his own shadow— _boomslang_ —he couldn’t teach us Dark Arts if he tried.” The door opened in front of them at Draco’s password and he started through. “It’s like as if…Potter?” Draco paused in the doorway and turned back to look for Harry, who had stopped.

“Something wrong?” Draco asked curiously.

Harry shook his head.

“Well, we’ve suddenly got a free night,” Draco grinned. “Want to play gobstones or something?”

Harry shook his head again and backed away.

Draco frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Library,” Harry said quickly. “I have to finish my essay.” He turned around and walked away from the boy he’d thought was his friend.

“What essay?” Draco asked. "Potter?"

Harry didn’t answer.

“Harry?”

He took off down the hallway, not quite running. He didn’t stop until he’d gone up three flights of stairs and down several corridors. The part of the castle he was in now was dark and very empty. Harry dropped to the floor and sat there, panting heavily.

He had no idea where to go.


	11. Gryffindor House

Spring was here at last but it did little to improve Harry's mood, and not just because it was a very gray, drizzly sort of spring. 

Harry had taken to spending most of his time out of his common room: in the library, at Hagrid’s, or just wandering the school. Sometimes he wore the cloak, sometimes he just roamed. He always had it with him, though, both in case he ever got caught out after hours and because he didn’t want to be separated from it again. 

His dad, at least, couldn’t ever let him down. 

Harry morbidly supposed that that was one good thing about being dead: you might as well be perfect. You couldn’t hurt your friends or betray people who’d trusted you if you were dead. 

That thought didn’t do anything to cheer him up, either. 

Harry knew he was being grumpy and moody but he didn’t care. The only people he was spending time with these days were Hagrid, who was too stubbornly cheerful himself (and too busy with his duties, which he let Harry help with sometimes) to let Harry get away with moping, and Hermione, who was terse and cross herself because she was so focused on their upcoming exams. 

Harry didn’t see why she was stressed about it. As far as he could tell, she knew everything already, so what was she worrying about? 

But worry she did, and seemed to be spending every spare moment in the library, which was where Harry kept running into her. With their exams slowly drawing nearer the place was growing a little more crowded than usual as the other students slowly joined the few regulars, like Hermione and all those Ravenclaws, to get in some early studying of their own. 

Usually whenever Harry turned up, most of the tables were already occupied, but Hermione almost always sat alone and never minded if he joined her. She didn’t seem to have any friends, just like Harry. 

Well, that wasn’t strictly true: Harry _had_ friends. They were always pestering him, too obtuse to get the hint that he wanted to be left alone and no, he wasn’t interested in playing gobstones, or exploding snap, or chess, or sneaking stink beetles into Gryffindors’ school bags when they weren’t looking, or trying to trick a professor into writing them a note so they could go fool around on the school brooms, or any of the hundred other activities that Draco, Crabbe, Goyle, and sometimes even Nott came up with to while away their few hours between assignments, or slack off with when they didn't feel like doing their work. 

Not that Harry had much option there, he found, at least on the days when he hung out with Hermione in the library. His study habits and homework practices horrified her, and she had quickly drawn up a schedule for him so that he could keep everything organized and get it all done on time. Harry had just as promptly lost it in the cavernous depths of his school bag, the bottom of which was already a shifting mess of broken quills, crumpled papers, bits of dried ink, and mysterious detritus that had once been plants or potion ingredients. Nothing ever emerged intact from that pit, and Harry figured Hermione's schedule didn't stand a chance. 

She still made him do his homework far earlier than he thought was necessary, though. But her nagging beat being alone, most days.  


It wasn’t as nice as spending time with Hagrid, but Hagrid, too, was preoccupied these days. There was something wrong, although he wouldn’t tell Harry what; just made lots of vague, grumbled comments and shot the Forbidden Forest dark glances from time to time. Harry asked him, once, if it was something to do with Fluffy and the You-Know-What, but even the mysterious package from Vault 713 couldn’t hold Harry’s interest these days and when Hagrid wouldn’t answer, Harry didn’t bother to press further. 

Very few students went home for the two-week break between terms this time, although they all still had to sign up on the list, just like at Christmas. Harry thought it would have made more sense to make a list for the students who _weren’t_ staying at Hogwarts. The only Slytherin students in his year who went home were Blaise Zabini and Daphne Greengrass. 

Harry was quite pleased to see Blaise go. 

At first he was confused by the crowded castle, but then he figured out that if everyone else had as much homework as he did, they’d be lucky to even have time outside of the library, and it was no wonder they weren’t leaving school. The teachers, it seemed, thought along the same lines as Hermione, and the rest of the students didn’t have any choice but to follow her lead in seeking out the brimming bookshelves, not if they wanted to pass. 

Harry wouldn’t have minded if a few less of them had been concerned for their academics. The library wasn’t much of a refuge if it was crowded with all the people he was avoiding. 

“Ew,” a shrill voice suddenly interrupted Harry’s valiant attempt to memorize the twelve uses of dragon blood. “We can’t sit back here, look who it is!” 

Harry looked up to see Pansy Parkinson pointing at him—no, past him, at Hermione Granger. Hermione stiffened but didn’t look up at the cluster of first year Slytherin girls sneering at her over Pansy’s shoulder. “Ick, Potter,” Pansy continued, “what are _you_ doing there?” Harry shrugged. “I am _sure_ ,” Pansy said in an exaggeratedly scandalized tone, “that _someone_ else would be _glad_ to budge up and share their table with you, to save you having to sit with—with _that_ .” 

Hermione made a noise like an angry tea kettle but still didn’t look up from her book. She had, however, stopped turning the pages. 

“I’m fine here, thanks,” Harry said. 

Pansy smirked. “Aw, has Potter got a girlfriend?” she giggled, and her friends giggled with her. “Potter, that’s so tragic! You’re a Slytherin, you know,” she chided him cheerfully, “you have standards to maintain. The reputation of our house—” 

“Shut-up, Pansy.” 

Everyone turned around to look at Draco Malfoy, who had just come around the corner of the shelves. He was glaring at Pansy, whose jaw dropped in hurt surprise. Crabbe and Goyle, as usual, shuffled along behind Draco. They looked, for once, no more confused than anyone else. 

“But—but, Draco, she’s a Mu—”

“Annoying, insufferable know-it-all,” Draco interrupted, sneering, “so I’d wager that Harry’s got nothing to worry about on _his_ exams. But from what Professor Snape has said, _you_ could do with some more effort in Potions, at least, so why don’t you go look into that?”

Everybody stared at Draco. He crossed his arms coolly and stared right back at the flustered girl in front of him. Tracey Davis snickered and Pansy turned around to shoot her a look of stark betrayal. “Sorry,” Tracey muttered, sounding gleeful. 

Pansy pouted affrontedly and flounced off, the other girls trailing her. Draco’s gaze flickered sideways to Harry and Hermione, then he quickly left as well. Crabbe and Goyle, of course, followed him. Harry pointedly turned around and did not watch them go. The last person he wanted helping him out right now was Draco Malfoy. 

“Hmph,” was all Hermione said, and she shoved her nose back even more deeply into her book. 

It wasn’t until quite a few minutes later that it occurred to Harry that if Draco hadn’t interrupted Pansy, she probably would have called Hermione a Mudblood, right in front of everybody. He wondered, fleetingly, if Draco had stopped her on purpose.

Not that _annoying, insufferable know-it-all_ was a nice thing to call someone, but it certainly beat _Mudblood_ . 

Harry shifted uncomfortably and tried to focus on the blood uses he was supposed to be learning, but soon gave it up as a bad job. “See you later,” he muttered to Hermione, who just grunted in response, buried deep in her book. Harry shoved his things in his bag and slipped quietly out of the library. 

He was halfway back to his common room when he stopped at the sound of a familiar voice. It was Pansy again, and she was right around the corner. Harry really didn’t want to deal with any more teasing right now, and looked around for an escape route. 

Then another voice joined the first, cutting Pansy’s words off, and Harry froze. 

It was Draco. 

“Because it’s disgusting, that’s why,” he said. “Pairing Potter with _her_ , what’s wrong with you? The very idea is repulsive.”

“Then he shouldn’t be hanging out with her, I guess,” Pansy snapped back. 

“Don’t see why it’s any business of yours who he hangs out with,” Draco replied sharply. 

“Well, I don’t see why it’s any business of _yours_ what I say to him, then.”

“Because he’s my friend, that’s why, and I won’t have you saying things about him and some filthy Mudblood.”

Harry stomped off in disgust. Maybe Hagrid needed help de-sliming some slugs or something. Better that than stay here and listen to this.

 

 

 

Harry decided to skip the library the next day. It wasn’t because he was afraid of Pansy, or what she’d say, or because he cared that Hermione was a Mudblood. It was just that this was the first really fine day they’d had in months. The sky was a clear, forget-me-not blue, and there was a feeling in the air of summer coming. He couldn’t possibly spend it inside, cooped up in the library, staring at books. 

Harry sauntered down to Hagrid’s, enjoying the break from all the drizzle. Slytherin would be playing their final match against Hufflepuff in a few weeks, and Harry hoped that the weather would hold out until then. It was, he figured, just about a perfect day for flying. 

For a moment he thought about heading back up to the castle and finding Draco. With weather like this, the other boy would probably be trying to find a way to get some illicit flying in, and if any first year could wheedle his way onto a broom unsupervised, Harry knew it would be Draco Malfoy. He probably wouldn’t even have to try very hard, even: just ask Snape—although Snape had been in a really bad mood lately, one foul enough that he’d even snapped at Draco last class for not paying attention, although of course he hadn’t taken any points for it. And he would probably still give him permission to open the broomshed, and the weather _was_ excellent…

But, Harry reminded himself firmly, he didn’t want to see Draco right now, and he certainly didn’t want to go flying with him. Draco, Harry repeated silently, was not his friend. He didn’t want anything to do with him. 

Harry stomped determinedly down to Hagrid’s, refusing to glance over his shoulder at the castle, just in case there were any students out on brooms—and just in case any of them happened to be very pale and blond. Harry didn’t want to know. It was easier to be resolute when you didn’t know for sure what you were missing.

He knocked on the door to Hagrid’s hut, but there was no answer, not even from Fang. “Hello?” Harry shouted, but still nothing. He walked around, frowning at the tightly shuttered windows and smoking chimney. It must be absolutely sweltering inside. Harry couldn’t understand it. Was Hagrid sick?

He peered into the garden, but aside from vegetables the only occupants were Fang, sprawled miserably in the middle of Hagrid’s tomatoes, and a handful of bored-looking chickens. Harry spent a few minutes scratching Fang’s belly and got an enthusiastic bath in return, but the boardhound couldn’t tell him where his master was any more than the chickens could. 

Harry walked back to the front of the hut and tried the door again. 

“Hey, Hagrid! It’s me, Harry! Are you there?” Harry waited, but there was still no response. He kicked a rock and watched it rattle off into the pumpkin patch. 

Where was Hagrid? Surely he wouldn’t be out doing anything on the grounds, not without Fang, and certainly not with his chimney smoking like that. The fire must be positively roaring, quite unseasonably. Harry scratched at the nearest window but it was latched tight and he only succeeded in giving himself a splinter. 

Sucking at the sliver of wood in his finger, Harry scowled at the silent hut. What on earth was Hagrid doing?

After a few long, unproductive minutes, Harry gave up. He kicked another rock, grumpily, and stomped back to the castle. He saw a few brooms flash by overhead but resisted the urge to look up. Someone was flying, but Harry didn’t want to know who. 

He kicked stones the whole way up the lawn, practicing football skills that, thanks to Dudley’s gang, he rarely got the chance to do much of anything with in gym class. Not that football compared to Quidditch in any way, of course…

Harry couldn’t help it, he sneaked a glance at the flying students, but they were just a few dark blurs against the sky. He wondered if one of the teams was out practicing, and what it would be like to be on it. Harry grinned, imagining himself swooping towards a goal hoop, diving after the snitch, dodging Bludgers…

“Hey! Watch it!”

Harry jerked out of his reverie just in time to stop himself from kicking what turned out to be not a rock at all, but a fat, warty toad. 

“Sorry!” he said quickly, pulling his foot back. Plump hands darted in and snatched the toad out of harm’s way and Harry looked up to see who he had nearly run into. 

The round, scowling face of Neville Longbottom looked back at him. 

“Sorry,” Harry said again. “Didn’t see him there.” 

“Y-yeah, I’ll bet,” Longbottom muttered, hunching in protectively around his toad. He looked around, as if expecting an ambush. 

“I didn’t,” Harry said, frowning. “I don’t just go around kicking people’s toads.” 

“Right,” snorted Longbottom. He looked nervous. 

“I don’t!” Harry protested. 

“Well, I guess you don’t have to. You have _those_ two around to do that stuff for you, don’t you?” Longbottom backed away from Harry slowly. Harry followed, frowning harder. 

“What, you mean Crabbe and Goyle?” he asked. “Why would I have them do anything?”

“Y-you hang out with Draco Malfoy,” Longbottom said, as if that explained everything. 

“So?” said Harry, not wanting to admit to the fact that his friends were all liars and nobody really liked him at all. 

Longbottom shrugged. 

“Listen, what does it matter who I hang out with, or don’t?” Harry demanded.

“You’ll...you’ll make fun of me, or, or do something f-funny,” Longbottom said fearfully. “That’s what, um, what they always do and, and you’re their friend, so...” His eyes were darting around the courtyard so quickly now that Harry was getting dizzy just watching him. 

“I will not,” Harry snapped, losing patience with the stuttering Gryffindor. “And I’m not so sure I want to be Draco’s friend, anyway.”

Longbottom just stared at him darkly, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop and kick him in his pasty, round face. 

Harry sighed and looked down at his toes. “I don’t think he really likes me all that much,” Harry admitted, “and I don’t think I really like him, either.”

“Oh,” said Longbottom.

“He’s a—a bully and a liar and I don’t miss him at all,” Harry said heatedly. 

“Oh,” Longbottom said again, in a small voice, “right.” 

Harry didn’t know why he was even talking to the hopeless Gryffindor boy, let alone confessing things like that to him. He just felt, for some reason, that Neville Longbottom was someone with whom he had a lot in common. Maybe it was just that he had been feeling so miserable lately, and Longbottom was always so pathetic. They were probably two of a kind.

“Well…I thought you were friends,” Longbottom muttered defensively. 

“So did I,” said Harry sourly. He plopped down on the low stone wall around the courtyard and kicked at it idly with his heels. 

After a few moments Longbottom edged over and joined him, sitting well down the wall from Harry, as if afraid that he might attack. His hands were still wrapped tightly around his toad, who had stopped kicking and seemed to have resigned himself stoically to captivity in the chubby boy’s hands. 

“So, um…H-hermione says you’re all right, anyway,” Longbottom offered.

Harry shrugged. “I dunno,” he said.

“Sh-she’s pretty nice,” Longbottom continued, valiantly trying to make conversation. “She helps me out sometimes in class.”

“Yeah, well, you need it, don’t you?” Harry replied before he could stop himself. Longbottom winced, and so did he. “Sorry,” Harry said.

“Th-that’s all right,” said Longbottom miserably, “it’s true.”

Harry shrugged. “Well...I bet you need less help than Goyle does,” he said by means of a peace offering. 

Longbottom’s grin was watery, but it was still a smile. 

“And Hermione’s helped me some, too,” Harry continued, “with studying, and stuff.”

Longbottom nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ve seen you with her sometimes in the library.”

Harry nodded. “Why didn’t you ever join us?” he asked. 

Longbottom shifted uncomfortably on the stone wall. “Well…” he hesitated. “I mean, I didn’t want to annoy you…”

“You should definitely come along next time,” Harry said. “At the least it would give Hermione someone else’s study habits to get aggravated with.”

They both grinned at that.

“Yeah,” said Longbottom, “she can be a bit…”

“Yeah,” agreed Harry.

“But,” Longbottom continued, “she means well, really. And my Gran always says that’s the most important thing.” He didn't look convinced.

“I’ll bet she does,” Harry said, imagining how often Neville Longbottom’s grandmother probably had to repeat to herself things like, _the boy means well_ … Harry chuckled.

“Um…this is Trevor,” Longbottom said, holding out his toad for inspection. Harry nodded at the amphibian politely. It croaked. “Do you…do you have any pets?” Longbottom asked.

Harry nodded. “An owl,” he said. “Her name’s Hedwig, she’s brilliant.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Longbottom. “She’s white, isn’t she? I’ve seen her at mail call. She looks pretty.” He looked down mournfully at Trevor. “Probably real useful, too, having an owl…”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno, nothing wrong with a toad,” he lied, secretly thinking that Hedwig was the coolest animal in the world, and he’d rather have her than a hundred toads. “I mean, it's not like I ever get mail…”

“Oh.” Longbottom’s face went pink. “Right,” he said quickly. “I…forgot.”

After a long, awkward silence, Harry asked, “so, um, your gran writes you all the time, right?”

Longbottom nodded. “I forget things a lot,” he confessed quietly, which was no secret to anyone at Hogwarts. 

“Bet she’s got an owl of her own, huh? Or two or three?” Harry grinned. “Your parents should open an owlery, all the mail she sends…”

“Oh, I—I live with my gran, actually,” said Longbottom. His voice had gone quite high-pitched and stuffy. “My, my parents aren’t…”

“Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “Really sorry. I didn't know.”

“S’okay,” muttered Longbottom. 

The uncomfortable silence stretched out, broken only by Trevor’s low croaking. Harry avoided looking at Longbottom by staring around at everything else instead. Suddenly he realized that “everything else” included a familiar, exceptionally tall figure hurrying away from the castle towards the gamekeeper’s hut. Harry jumped to his feet.

“Uh, listen,” he said, “I need to, um—”

“No problem,” said Longbottom. “I’ll—I’ll stop bothering you, now.” He climbed off the wall quickly, Trevor grumbling in protest at the jostling.

“No,” said Harry, “it’s fine, I just have to—look, why don’t we hang out later?” he offered. 

“Really?” gaped Longbottom.

“Sure,” Harry shrugged. “We can meet back here after lunch or something.”

Longbottom might be the most pathetic person in their year but, Harry figured, he clearly wasn’t much better off himself, and he could use a friend, even a fumbling, stuttering one like Neville. And the Gryffindor boy didn’t seem like he'd be all that bad, once you got to know him. 

“Okay,” said Longbottom. “That, um, that sounds cool…”

“Brilliant,” said Harry. “I’ll catch you later, then.”

Longbottom said something in farewell but Harry was no longer listening. He was already pelting down the lawn towards Hagrid’s. Harry was dying to ask him what was going on, where he’d been, and what he was doing smuggling what looked an awful lot like one of Madame Pince’s precious library books out of the castle like some kind of contraband. 

When he got there, however, there was no more answer than before. Harry banged on the door and shouted until at last he heard a muffled, “All righ’, all righ’…” from within. Fang whined from the back garden, apparently still banished from the hut even though Hagrid had returned. 

Hagrid cracked the door open and peered down at Harry through a sliver barely wide enough to expose half of his heavily bearded face. “Oh, Harry. Didn’ expect yeh.” Hagrid glanced furtively over his shoulder then back at Harry and attempted a casual smile. “How are yeh, then?” he asked.

Harry’s face felt hot, like the air inside the hut was a lot warmer than outside. “What’ve you got in there?” he asked. 

“Nothin’!” said Hagrid quickly.

Harry stood on his toes and stretched back and forth but couldn’t see anything past Hagrid’s bulk. “Liar,” said Harry, grinning. “C’mon, what is it?”

“I told yeh, it’s nothin’!” Hagrid snapped. His face had gone red. 

Harry frowned. “It’s not another three-headed dog, is it?” he asked, leery. 

“Course it ain’t,” said Hagrid. “Already got one o’ them. I mean, it’s nothin’!” he amended hastily. “Bit busy, Harry, can’t chat just now, sorry,” he said, and shut the door. 

Harry gaped at the solid wood in front of his face. He scowled and knocked until the windows rattled, but Hagrid did not return. Fang barked petulantly, but he was no help either. 

Harry was in a very bad mood as he walked back up to the castle. He was glad he didn’t run into Longbottom and his toad again; right now, he might have been tempted to give Trevor a good kick after all. 

Instead he ran into something much worse: _Weasleys_ . 

Harry was halfway across the courtyard before he realized that anyone was paying any attention to him. 

“Oi! Potter!” 

Harry jerked out of his grumpy reverie at the sound of his name being shouted. He saw two tall, red-headed, identical figures stalking towards him angrily. Harry took a step backwards before he could stop himself. What did _they_ want?

“We want a word with you,” one of the twins said. It wasn’t a request, but a threat. 

“Wh-what for?” Harry asked. 

A crowd began to gather as people in the courtyard realized that something out of the ordinary was going on. Out of the corner of his eye Harry saw Theodore Nott poking out like a pale weed between two Ravenclaws. Like the rest of the onlookers, his sharp eyes were darting back and forth between Harry and the Weasleys.

“You think we wouldn’t find out?” the other twin demanded. 

“Find out what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” said the first Weasley. He crossed his arms. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry was starting to feel frantic. The twin Gryffindors looked like they were in the mood for a fight, and Harry was under no delusions about his ability to take on both older, taller boys by himself. He looked around for help and saw only Theodore, who grimaced, looked around himself and, seeing no one else they knew in green, slunk away. 

_So much for house loyalty_ , Harry thought glumly. “I really don’t,” he told the Weasleys, a bit desperately. 

“You’ve been having a go at our mother,” said one twin. 

“Don’t deny it,” snapped the other, as Harry’s mouth fell open to do just that. 

“But I haven’t!” he protested, bewildered. 

“Liar,” sneered a Weasley. 

Harry shook his head, utterly perplexed until he noticed a horribly smirking Blaise Zabini leaning against the far column with his arms crossed, watching the show. He caught Harry’s eye and nodded smugly. Harry’s heart dropped into his stomach like a cold lump of realization and he knew that he wasn’t going to talk his way out of this. 

“I—I’m really not,” Harry stammered. “I don’t even know your mother—”

“Don’t you talk about her,” one twin interrupted. 

“You think we’d let you get away with that?” the other scowled. "We don't care if you are the Great Harry Potter—”

“Nobody says those kinds of things about our mum—”

“Especially no Slytherin.”

They nodded in fierce unison. 

Harry swallowed hard. 

“Do something!” somebody hissed.

Harry risked a glance sideways and saw that the growing crowd now included Hermione Granger, who was tugging at the arm of the youngest Weasley: Ron. “They’re your brothers, you have to stop them!” she demanded. 

“Are you mental?” Ron whispered back, gaping at her. 

Hermione stomped her foot, frowned, and chewed on her lip. Harry knew that she was no fan of broken rules, and was probably personally affronted that any Gryffindor would dare pick a fight somewhere that a teacher might see. 

“You’re all going to get in awful trouble,” she told the twins, and Harry as well, as if the fight had been his idea. “You’d just better stop it!” she ordered.

“Sod off, why don’t you?” one of the twins suggested amiably.

“Ooh!” Hermione gasped in frustration and spun around on her heel, shoving her way through the crowd. 

Her housemates were glad enough to let her go; anyone who would stick up for a Slytherin—even if only to keep order—wasn’t going to win herself any points with the rest of them. 

The twins had paused to watch and now looked at their brother inquiringly. Ron took one look at Harry and threw his hands up, backing away. The twins nodded approvingly and turned back, advancing on Harry once again. 

“No—really,” he pleaded, “I haven’t said anything, honest.”

“What do you say, George, do you believe him?” one Weasley asked the other.

“I find myself inclined to doubt his word, actually, Fred,” he replied. 

“I think a particular little Slytherin may need to be taught a lesson, George,” the first surmised.

“You know Fred, I think you might be right,” said the other. 

Harry stumbled backwards. “No, listen—”

“What’s going on here?”

Everyone turned to look at the source of the new voice: It was Draco Malfoy, just come around the corner with Crabbe and Goyle. He scanned the courtyard and its burgeoning confrontation, and strode over imperiously to stand beside Harry. Crabbe and Goyle, as usual, trailed right behind. 

All three of them crossed their arms and glared at the Weasleys, Crabbe and Goyle flanking Draco—and, by extension, Harry—like great, hulking bodyguards. They were both shorter than the third year twins, but definitely broader. Everyone paused to assess the new dynamics. 

If it came to a fight, Harry figured, the Slytherins and Gryffindors would probably be pretty closely matched—unless the older Weasleys turned to magic, at which point Crabbe and Goyle would be useless as anything other than cover to hide behind. Not that Harry knew any good curses or jinxes himself, mind, but he kept his hand near his wand anyway. 

His palms were sweaty and he hoped that, if he did have to go for his wand, he wouldn’t embarrass himself by dropping it. He would have felt better about his backup if he’d been confident that he’d be able to count on them should things go badly, but Harry knew that Draco was just following his father’s instructions to make it look good, and he didn’t think that would extend to actually risking a fight with the Gryffindor twins. 

They seemed unsure of what to do now that they were confronted by all four Slytherins, rather than Harry alone. They exchanged a glance that Harry couldn’t decipher. One of them nodded, and then the other, and they started forward again. 

“What’s wrong,” Draco sneered, “were you trying to beg for pocket money, and Potter’s refusing to help you out? You should have sent your little brother, he’s even more pathetic than you two are, Potter might have taken pity.”

Everyone gasped and a few people giggled. Ron yelled, “Oi!” and his brothers’ jaws dropped in unison. “You little slug,” one of them spat, his hands curling into fists. 

Crabbe cracked his knuckles and Goyle crossed his arms. The twins stopped, sizing up the two bulky Slytherins and their scrawnier companions. Draco offered his most infuriatingly smug smirk. Harry had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop his own smile. He was pretty sure that he was about to get pounded, but he could hardly help but grin at how easily Draco was riling the two older boys.

Harry quickly reminded himself that he didn’t like Draco, but that didn’t make it any less entertaining. 

“Cowardly little worm,” the second twin muttered, his freckled face screwed up in angry disgust. “You’re real brave hiding behind your friends now, aren’t you?”

Harry wasn’t sure if they were talking to Draco, or to him. He shrugged anyway.

“Oh right,” Draco drawled, “because it takes real _guts_ , that true Gryffindor courage,to pick on a lone first year when you come in a matched set. You know, I hope you were cheaper that way, at least, for your parents’ sake.” He smirked.

“You’d know all about picking on people when they’re outnumbered, wouldn’t you, Malfoy?” someone shouted from the crowd. It was Finnegan, or maybe Thomas; Harry couldn’t remember which was which, but the other one was standing at his friend’s side, nodding agreement, so it didn’t really matter. 

Draco spun around to face the new participant, scowling. “You shut your fat, Mudblood mouth, Thomas,” he snapped. Several people gasped and someone muttered, “bad form!”

“What d’you say, George, shall we shut the little git’s mouth for him instead?” one of the Weasley twins suggested darkly. 

“I’d say he needs rather to have it washed out,” the other demurred, and reached for his wand with a malicious grin. “ _Scourg_ —”

“Oh, my, what’s all this, what’s all this?”

Everyone jumped at the high-pitched voice. The twins spun around, the one with his wand out hastily stuffing it back inside his robe. 

Coming down the yard towards them was the diminutive Professor Flitwick, with Hermione Granger scowling at his heels. The Gryffindors and Slytherins all shuffled uncomfortably, doing their best to look innocent and nonchalant in a way that radiated guilt. The gathered crowd held its collective breath.

“Afternoon, Professor Flitwick,” one of the twins said breezily.

“Mr. Weasley, we haven’t been getting into trouble again, have we?” Flitwick squeaked mournfully.

“Who, us? Of course not, professor!” the other replied for them both. He grinned at the Slytherins in a very unsociable manner. “We’re just having ourselves a friendly chat here. With our _friends_.” His smile seemed to show every single one of his teeth. 

“Right,” said Draco, making very little effort to pass his sneer off as a more pleasant expression, “that’s exactly what’s going on, professor. Nothing for you to concern yourself over, whatever Granger there’s told you.”

Flitwick frowned, looking between the two groups of students as if debating which set would be more likely to crack. Hermione mirrored him, scowling darkly. “Very well, very well,” the Charms professor relented tiredly, “I suggest you all go back inside now, boys. Lunch has started, and you wouldn’t want to miss that…”

The crowd gradually scattered. The Weasleys slouched away, looking every bit as sulky and disappointed as Crabbe and Goyle. None of them could do anything more than toss dirty looks at one another, however, since Professor Flitwick—with Hermione still at his side, looking cross and superior—watched them all the whole way back into the castle. 

Harry stiffly thanked his three comrades for their help.

Goyle smiled. “Sure thing,” he said brightly, rubbing his disappointingly unbruised knuckles. 

Crabbe seemed a bit more resentful of having had to come to Harry’s rescue, but shrugged and said only that any opportunity to pound Gryffindors was a good one. Goyle nodded enthusiastically and looked around to see if, having been denied the Weasleys, he could spot any substitute targets nearby.

Draco just grinned smugly and assured Harry that he had nothing to worry about so long as he was around. “Nobody will dare give you any trouble,” he proclaimed haughtily, “I’ll see to that.” 

Harry thought about pointing out that it had probably been the presence of Crabbe and Goyle, rather than Draco, that had given the Gryffindors pause, but as it was Draco who directed Crabbe and Goyle, Harry supposed he had a point anyway. 

“Come on,” Crabbe interrupted, “what about lunch?”

Draco nodded and they all set off for the Great Hall, Harry unable to come up with a good excuse to extricate himself from their company. He thought about saying that he wasn’t hungry, but his stomach picked just then to pipe up and give him away. He resigned himself to sitting through lunch with his erstwhile friends. It would have been rude to ditch them after they’d just stuck up for him to the Gryffindors like that, even though Harry knew they’d only done it on Lucius Malfoy’s say-so. 

That didn’t stop Draco from regaling everyone nearby with the story. Harry was forced to nod along, making a lot of noncommittal “ums” and “ahhs,” as the tale of his confrontation with the Weasley twins grew by leaps and bounds with every word Draco spun. His embellishments soon had everyone hanging on his words. Incredulous exclamations and spurts of uproarious laughter burst from their little section of the Slytherin table. Each chuckle and chortle garnered darker and darker looks from the Gryffindors and Harry was glad that they were on the far side of the room. 

After lunch, he still couldn’t get away; Draco, apparently disgruntled by how Harry had been avoiding him of late, had taken the opportunity to latch, limpet-like, on to his side, and he wasn’t about to be pushed aside by any of Harry’s weak excuses. 

Harry thought that, the day being so nice, Draco would want to spend it outside, so he claimed to be knackered from the almost-fight, and decided to head back to their common room. Unfortunately Draco elected to come along, and having already stated his plans, Harry had no choice now but to follow through on them despite the others tagging along. 

They walked through the secret door in the dungeons and right into Blaise Zabini’s wrath. 

“What was that all about?” the tall, dark-skinned boy snapped, before Harry had even crossed the threshold. An irate Blaise didn’t exude much of the casual elegance he usually boasted. 

Draco stared back mildly. “What do you mean?” he asked. 

Blaise’s dark eyes snapped as angrily as Snape’s ever had. “You know very well!” he retorted. “What were you thinking, getting involved in that—that fracas?”

“We were—”

“Shut-up, Gregory, I’m not talking to you,” Blaise interrupted. “I’m talking to _Draco_. Well? Taking on the Weasleys like that—you could have gotten hurt or, worse, gotten in trouble, maybe even lost us points! You know how close we are to winning the Cup this year?”

Draco shrugged. “If it had come to a fight,” he pointedly out calmly, “Harry would have been in it anyway, so if we were going to lose points, it would have happened the same, with or without my help.”

“And, uh, Professor Flitwick didn’t—”

Blaise ignored Harry, snarling, “that’s not the point, that’s only Potter after all.”

Draco stiffened. “I beg your pardon?” he said harshly. 

Harry felt his face going red and wished that everyone would look at something else, but it seemed like half the house was assembled in their common room right now, and all of them were staring at him. 

“That’s only _Potter_ ,” Blaise repeated venomously. “He’s just some filthy half-blood, it’s not like he’s a proper Slytherin—”

Draco interrupted heatedly, “he was sorted here the same as—”

“He’s the one that destroyed You-Know—”

“Oh please, you don’t care about politics any more than—”

“Everyone knows you’re only hanging around him to look good, cozying up to the Boy Who Lived like a sycophantic—”

“Shut-up,” Draco snarled. Surprisingly, Blaise did so, even taking a step backwards. He scowled at the shorter, paler boy, his face flushing, but Draco wasn’t done: “Just because you can’t manage to make proper friends is no reason to take it out those of us who can,” he told the other boy snidely. 

“Potter hardly counts as a proper friend,” Blaise retorted scornfully, “don’t be mental. He doesn’t even hang around the rest of us anymore, he’s too busy with that swottish Mudblo—”

“I’d rather have Harry for a friend than you, Blaise,” Draco snapped back. 

Everyone started, shocked by the words, not least of all Draco himself. Harry turned to stare, his mouth hanging open in the same dumbfounded expression that Crabbe was wearing. Pansy actually yelped before turning to her gang of girls, all of whom clustered together and started whispering furiously, while shooting scandalized glances over at the boys. Blaise just stared, sputtering like an angry teakettle. 

Draco tilted his chain and glared defiantly at all of them. “It’s too stuffy in here,” he announced loftily, “I’m going back outside.” He turned to look at Harry and Harry could see uncertainty behind his bravado. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “good idea.” He moved to join the other at the hidden door. He saw something that might have been a relieved grin flicker across Draco’s face.

Draco paused and looked coldly at Crabbe and Goyle. “Well,” he demanded, “are you coming?”

The two thick boys exchanged a glance, then hurried immediately to Malfoy’s side, dogging his imperious exit from the common room. Harry glanced over his shoulder on the way out. Blaise Zabini was staring after them all with murder in his dark eyes. Harry grimaced and hurried out the door. 

He trotted along next to Draco, his mind still reeling at the realization that Draco must be his friend after all. 

Draco was walking very quickly and he had gone pale, save for two red spots on his cheeks; he was either angry or frightened, Harry couldn’t tell. He wondered if Draco knew. 

Harry, however, was elated. He was beaming as he walked—no, practically bounced—at his friend’s side. Harry could hardly believe it. Not only did Draco Malfoy—arguably the coolest boy in their year—really want to be Harry’s friend, but he would rather hang out with him than with Blaise Zabini! 

Harry couldn’t stop grinning.

He didn’t notice Neville Longbottom at all. The Gryffindor boy was loitering awkwardly near the courtyard wall and he started forward eagerly when he spotted Harry come out the castle door. He stumbled back, though, when he saw who Harry was with, and his face fell. 

Neville watched in silence, hurt and confusion stark and painful on his round face, as Harry walked past him with the Slytherins. Harry didn’t so much as glance over once.

He had already forgotten all about Neville Longbottom. 


	12. Final Exams

The next two months passed in a happy blur for Harry. It was wonderful having friends again. Even Blaise’s pointed sulking couldn’t put a damper on Harry’s spirits. He was with Draco—and, more often than not, Crabbe and Goyle as well—nearly every minute. He barely noticed April come and go.

As it got warmer and pleasanter out, they started spending more and more time outside, sometimes going so far as to lug their schoolwork out with them to the lawns just for the pleasure of enjoying the great weather, even if they had to do homework at the same time. Harry hardly visited the library anymore, and he hadn’t spoken to Hagrid in weeks.

It was with some shock that, one warm Friday afternoon, Harry saw several people he didn’t recognize walking down to Hagrid’s hut. Harry was lounging under a tree next to the lake, ostensibly studying his Transfiguration homework but, really, just basking in the sunshine. Goyle was throwing stones in the lake, trying to annoy the Giant Squid; Crabbe had told him he was an idiot and was now staying well back from the water. Draco was alternating between shouting encouraging comments to Goyle and loudly agreeing with Crabbe about the odds of Goyle becoming fish food sometime in the next few minutes.

Harry sat up and shaded his eyes to watch what was going on down at Hagrid’s. He wondered if it had something to do with what Fluffy was guarding and realized suddenly that it had been months since he’d thought about the mysterious package from Vault 713. Even Draco had given up at last on the door in the third floor corridor and the mystery of whatever lay beneath that trapdoor.

Harry wondered if Snape and Quirrell had, as well. Given the fact that Quirrell had been getting noticeably paler and twitchier, and Snape had been getting more and more short-tempered and nasty, Harry had the feeling that they were still searching for a way to steal it.

But neither one of them was bothering Hagrid. Harry wondered who all those people were. From the way some of them were dressed, they looked important. With a start, he realized that one of them was Dumbledore. He stood up to see better.

They seemed to be having some sort of discussion, most of it focused on Hagrid, who had come outside and was now standing in front of his door like he’d planted himself in the trenches for battle. Things looked like they were getting heated until Dumbledore stepped forward and put a hand on Hagrid’s arm. The large gamekeeper deflated and trudged into his hut, followed by roughly half of the visitors, including Dumbledore.

One of them, a pudgy man in a cape and bowler hat, darted back out again a moment later and, while Harry was too far away to see his expression, he seemed frightened. Harry grinned, wondering what sort of creature Hagrid had inside his hut. It wasn’t a three-headed dog, Hagrid had said, but Harry figured that whatever it was, it would hardly be normal.

He wished that he’d taken the time to pester Hagrid more. He wanted to know what it was that had everyone so upset. Maybe another guard animal, like Fluffy? Although Harry couldn’t imagine what anyone could need _another_ beast like that for—unless it was Gringotts? No, Harry thought, if those people were from Gringotts, surely there’d be some goblins with them…

Harry kept watching and, eventually, Hagrid came back outside. Dumbledore came with him, but most of the other people stayed. Two of them—the pudgy, frightened man, and someone tall in a black cape—walked off in the other direction, away from Hogwarts, but Dumbledore and Hagrid started back towards the castle. Dumbledore had his hand on the much larger man’s back and seemed to be comforting Hagrid, whose head was bowed. Harry watched them pass, debating whether or not to run over and find out what was going on, but the idea of interrupting Dumbledore was too intimidating.

Harry settled back down under the tree and closed his eyes, enjoying the sunshine. He opened them at the sound of a loud splash and a startled yelp.

Harry grinned. It seemed that the Giant Squid had finally noticed Goyle.

 

 

That week-end when Harry announced that he was going down to Hagrid’s, Draco actually offered to come along. Harry didn’t think that Draco’s presence would help him coax an explanation out of Hagrid, but he couldn’t think of a way to refuse that wouldn’t be rude and anyway, he’d been hoping to show Draco how brilliant Hagrid was all year. Maybe this would be his chance.

Crabbe and Goyle were told not to come; they obeyed readily, perfectly content to stick with their attempts at crafting a Chocolate Frog Death Match rather than march all the way down to the gamekeeper’s hut. No one else in the common room seemed to think their efforts were likely to come to much of anything, but that hadn’t stopped several people from gathering around to watch the endeavor.

Harry was surprised that Draco wasn’t staying to officiate, and said as much. Draco shrugged, saying that it was much nicer outside, and chocolate frogs were boring, anyway.

It was actually gray and misty outside—not miserable, but hardly sunny—but Harry refrained from pointing that out. It was true that chocolate frogs hardly ever managed more than one jump. Draco was probably just bored with their friends’ rather feeble attempt at inventing a new game.

Harry led the way to Hagrid’s, chattering about slugs and pumpkins and Fang; Draco looked less sure of his decision to accompany Harry when he mentioned the large and very slobbery boarhound, but he didn’t turn back.

“Hey, Hagrid!” Harry called, knocking on the door. “You around?”

There was no answer and Harry frowned. He was getting tired of seeing this door closed all the time. “Hagrid! Hello?” he shouted, louder.

Draco, looking bored already, wandered off to examine Hagrid’s garden with a less-than-impressed smirk.

“I’m going to check inside,” Harry announced, walking around the hut and looking for an unshuttered window.

Contrary to the last time he had been down here, they all were; not just the shutters but the curtains were pulled back. Harry stood on his toes and peered in the nearest one, squinting to make out the darker interior.

He grinned when he spotted Hagrid, then frowned. The large man was sitting slumped across the table, a huge, upturned mug next to him. The rest of the table was cluttered with a basket of fruit, the copper kettle, a carving knife, a bit of official-looking parchment that Harry couldn’t make out the writing on, and several bottles. From the way his beard fluttered, Hagrid seemed to be snoring.

Fang was sprawled across his master’s heavy boots, likewise snoring and snuffling. His tail was bandaged but he looked perfectly content now, drooling all over Hagrid’s huge feet. He kicked a little in his sleep but aside from that, neither figure moved.

Harry stepped back from the window, chewing on his lip. He glanced sideways but Draco had turned to watch a cluster of birds that had broken out, suddenly, of the Forbidden Forest, and he didn’t seem to have seen anything of Hagrid or Fang.

Harry decided that this probably wasn’t the best time to introduce Draco to either of them, and called loudly to his friend, “I don’t think he’s here right now.” He searched his pockets and came up with a scrap of parchment. “I’m going to leave him a note,” he announced. Draco shrugged disinterestedly.

Harry plucked a piece of charred wood from the firepit in Hagrid’s back garden and managed to use it to write what he hoped would be a legible message. He tucked the parchment into the crack at the bottom of Hagrid’s door and stood back, brushing charcoal dust off his hands.

“Okay,” he said, “all done.”

“Great,” said Draco. “Come on, let’s see if those two idiots have managed to squash all their frogs yet.”

“Okay,” Harry said, and followed Draco back up to the castle. He glanced back once over his shoulder, but there was still no movement from Hagrid’s hut. Harry frowned.

 

The next morning Hedwig brought him an answering note at breakfast, but it was terse and unsatisfactory:

> Dear Harry,
> 
> Sorry I missed you. Must have been out doing something. Got lots of things that need tending to, you know. Funny stuff in the forest, too. And Dumbledore relies on me. Great man, Dumbledore, I owe him a lot especially now. Really owe him.
> 
> You have to be careful, Harry, because sometimes even when you really, really want something, you know you shouldn’t have it, and you can make trouble for people you shouldn’t ever trouble. Just be careful, Harry, always.
> 
> And sorry, but I can’t tell you what all those people were doing here. Dumbledore reckons it’s best if I don’t say anything, since a lot of people were upset with me, and I would be in an awful lot of trouble if Dumbledore hadn’t stepped in, and I wouldn’t want anyone to think I hadn’t learned my lesson. Dumbledore’s a great man, Harry, you make sure you always do what he tells you to.
> 
> Come see me again soon,
> 
> Hagrid

Harry scowled and crumpled the parchment in his hand. That wasn’t an answer at all!

He saw Draco looking at him curiously, but the others didn’t seem to have noticed that he’d even gotten mail. Everyone else was too excited about the imminent Quidditch match. It was Slytherin’s final match of the year, and they were anticipating a victory over Hufflepuff. That would set them up nicely for their seventh straight Cup, so long as Ravenclaw managed to beat Gryffindor on the sixth of June.

Harry stuffed the annoying bit of parchment into his pocket and shook his head at his friend. Draco shrugged and turned back to his animated debate with Daphne Greengrass. She was insisting furiously that there was no way the Slytherin Seeker ought to play, since she had overheard from several older girls that some sort of school fortuneteller had predicted a gruesome demise for Higgs before the end of the match, should he dare set foot on the pitch.

Draco thought this was barking, and he lost no time in saying so.

Harry drummed his fingers on the table, glaring pointlessly at his eggs and sausages, and decided that if Hagrid didn’t want to tell him what was going on, then he, Harry, didn’t care.

“Yeah, but Seekers always have to run risks,” he said loudly, jumping into the argument.

“There’s risks and then there’s _foretold_ ,” Daphne said haughtily. “Big difference.”

“Or fore- _bribed_ ,” Draco scoffed, unimpressed. “Who’s to say the Hufflepuffs didn’t pay the old bat to make that prediction to try and fluster Higgs and keep him from playing?”

“Hufflepuffs?” Daphne asked scornfully.

Harry had to admit that that seemed no more likely than the prediction itself.

Draco shrugged. “Or the Gryffindors,” he amended. “They’d love to see _anyone_ beat us, now that they’ve lost their chance to do so.”

Everyone sniggered at that, remembering the way all the Gryffindors had moped around the castle for weeks after Slytherin had defeated them in the opening match of the year. Any time a Gryffindor player came within earshot, the Slytherins would make loud bets about whether the team captain, Oliver Wood, was going to end his misery by pitching himself off the Astronomy Tower or throw himself to the giant squid instead.

Harry thought that was pretty mean, but couldn’t deny how thrilled he was that Slytherin was now so close to taking the Quidditch Cup for another year. He focused on that instead of on unsatisfactory explanations, and allowed his friends to distract him from the puzzle of Hagrid’s mysterious visitors.

 

 

Later that night, when Slytherin was boisterously celebrating their victory over Hufflepuff, Harry thought that he couldn’t remember ever being happier. He had friends again, his house was almost a shoe-in to win the Cup, and he didn’t care at all what Hagrid was up to down in his stupid old hut. Besides, somehow Crabbe had ended up with a bottle of something that the older students had been passing around, and now he was belting out a horribly off-key rendition of a song about goblins that Harry had never heard before, but that everyone else seemed to recognize despite its lyrical butchering.

Harry sniggered, along with everyone else. He felt pleasantly warm and fizzy all over, tired but too excited to go to sleep.

Even Blaise Zabini was smiling again, although not at Harry.

Everything was brilliant.

Harry had just settled down into a limp pile of general good will in a chair in front of the fire when the door suddenly ground open. It hadn’t slammed, of course—it wasn’t so much a door as it was an opening in the stone wall that only formed when one said the proper password, much like the entrance to Diagon Alley—but the sudden appearance of the towering, black-clad figure in the gap somehow made it _seem_ like a door had slammed _, somewhere_.

Their jocularity abruptly faltered.

Harry swallowed hard and struggled to sit up in his high-backed chair.

Several people anxiously shushed less observant friends. Draco poked Crabbe hard in the side and the burly boy shut up with a strangled hiccough. The last sound Harry heard before a ringing silence filled their dungeon room was a shrill, out-of-place peal of laughter. By then everyone else was staring at the intruder:

Professor Severus Snape, Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House.

Snape’s cold black eyes glittered as he scanned the common room. Even the Quidditch team—heroes of the hour—fidgeted under his scrutiny.

Harry tried to disappear into his chair.

“Well, well,” Snape said quietly. “What a celebration.”

Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team captain, struggled through the crowd. “I can explain, sir,” he panted, stumbling to a halt in front of the ominous professor. Flint looked flush-cheeked and bleary-eyed and Harry would have bet all the galleons in his pocket that whatever it was that had inspired Crabbe to start singing, Flint had drunk his fair share of as well.

“Not necessary,” Snape cut him off. His raised eyebrow was a threat. “Just see to it that it comes to an end,” he ordered. “Now.”

“Yes, sir,” Flint said quickly, nodding hard, then wincing at the motion.

Snape pursed his lips. “Very good,” he said. He turned to leave, paused, and added grudgingly, “and well done today.” He nodded curtly at his students, then swept from the room.

Harry wasn’t the only one to breathe a sigh of relief when the stone wall became solid again. He bolted straight for his dormitory, just in case Snape came back.

Despite their high spirits, none of the rest of the Slytherins were eager to disobey Snape, either, and the common room emptied quickly.

 

 

It might have just been the stress of exams, but Harry’s Christmas nightmares were back. This time they were accompanied by dull, searing pains along his scar. His friends were full of useful and not-so-useful advice, from Theodore’s suggestion of a mandrake tincture to Goyle’s seemingly well-intentioned offer to kick him in the shins every time his scar hurt, to distract him.

Crabbe told him to go see Madame Pomfrey, but Harry didn’t want to look like a sissy, and stubbornly insisted that he didn’t need to go to hospital, it wasn’t that bad. Crabbe told him to stop whining, then, but Draco told him to shut-up and Crabbe stomped off to sulk for awhile. He bullied a scrawny third year boy into trading him something cool for his beat-up gobstones set, and rejoined the others much more cheerfully, full of breezy apologies at Malfoy’s prompting.

Draco’s suggestion that Harry talk to Snape about his scar was even less welcome than Goyle’s suggestion of shin-kicking. Snape might well be Draco’s favorite professor, and Draco was certainly his favorite student, but Harry was pretty sure that the Potions Master absolutely loathed him, and he wasn’t about to go beg help from him, even if he was their head of house. Snape wasn’t so much the tender, ministering type, anyway.

Theodore pointed out that it probably made more sense to see Quirrell, since Harry’s scar was from a curse, and Quirrell was the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, which meant that it fell under his purview even more than it did Madame Pomfrey’s.

Harry liked the sound of that, particularly as it meant he didn’t have to talk to Snape, so he trudged upstairs to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. Harry hadn’t been alone in there since his almost mortally ill-fated detention, but of course it wasn’t like Quirrell had _tried_ to kill him. And even if he would prefer someone braver than Quirrell at his side if he ever had to face a troll again, Harry figured that the professor would at least be as well-versed in curse marks and scars as Nott had suggested.

Harry knocked on the door. “Excuse me? Professor Quirrell? Are you in there, sir?” Harry chewed his lip, fighting second thoughts. “It’s Harry Potter,” he added, “I was hoping you could help me with something, if you’re not busy…”

The door swung open. Quirrell looked paler and thinner than he had yesterday. Harry frowned. “Are you okay, sir?” he asked.

Quirrell was twitching, but that wasn’t unusual. “Oh, yes, P-p-p-potter, p-p-perfectly f-fine, p-p-p-p-perfectly,” Quirrell stammered. He licked his lips and stared at Harry with oddly bright eyes.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I can come back later,” he offered.

“Nonsense!” Quirrell yelped. “C-c-c-come right in, Mister P-p-p-potter!”

Harry dodged around the tremulous professor, who shut the door quickly as if he was afraid of what might be lurking in the hallways. Quirrell led the way to the front of the room and motioned shakily for Harry to sit down.

Quirrell perched on the edge of his cluttered desk and looked down at Harry.

“What can I d-d-d-do for y-y-you, P-p-p-p…Potter?”

Harry picked at a scratch in his desk. “Well,” he said, “I’ve been having…funny dreams, and my scar…” Harry pushed his fringe back so that Quirrell could see the jagged lightning bolt that was the only reminder Harry had of the night he’d lost his parents. “My scar keeps hurting,” he said.

Quirrell twitched, his eyes flickering strangely. “Your scar?” he breathed, apparently too enraptured to stutter. His gaze was fixed on Harry’s forehead intensely enough to make Harry shift in his seat.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “And I thought, well, since it was from a curse, maybe you would know—”

The door slammed open and both Harry and Quirrell jumped.

Harry spun around in his seat and gaped at the tall, furious figure of Professor Snape, framed in the doorway like a livid shadow. Snape glanced briefly at Harry, then focused on Quirrell, who had gone quite still.

“S-s-severus,” he stammered.

Snape’s lip curled in a sneer. “Quirinus,” he replied coldly.

“C-can I h-help you w-w-with anything, S-s-severus?”

“It seems your memory is slipping,” Snape said. He glided closer, his black robes dragging softly on the flagged stone floor. His eyes glittered and Harry fought an inexplicable urge to look down at his shoes. He swallowed hard when Snape stopped right next to his desk. “I thought I had made the matter of Mister Potter perfectly clear.”

“Y-yes, Severus, o-of course,” Quirrell began.

“You haven’t forgotten what we discussed, then?” Snape asked mildly.

“N-no, n-not at—at all,” Quirrell gasped, shrinking back against his desk.

Harry weighed the odds of slipping out of the room unnoticed.

“Good,” said Snape, speaking through barred teeth.

“Potter!” Snape barked, and Harry jumped.

“Y-yes, professor?” he yelped, stuttering just like Quirrell.

“I believe you have one last exam to study for, do you not?” Snape asked.

“Uh, yes, sir,” said Harry.

“Then I suggest you see to that.”

Harry gulped. “Um, but I was—”

“Yes?” Snape hissed.

“Uh,” said Harry, “nothing.” He scrambled to his feet. “Um, excuse me, professor,” he said to Quirrell. “Sir,” he nodded quickly at Snape and bolted for the door. A glance over his shoulder showed Quirrell watching him closely until the black cloud of Snape’s robes moved between them.

Harry ran for it.

 

When he got back to the common room, he just said that Quirrell hadn’t had time to see him. His friends were all busy studying for their History of Magic exam tomorrow, so no one asked him further questions, although Draco did suggest that Harry see Madame Pomfrey for a note excusing him from the exam, on the basis of scar-pains and lack of sleep.

Harry didn’t see what good that would do; he’d still have to take the exam eventually, and the longer he waited, the more he was sure he would forget.

When he said as much Draco just shrugged and said, “suit yourself,” before dropping back into his textbook.

Even Crabbe and Goyle had their notes open, although Goyle’s eyes had glazed over and he was just staring stupidly into space, while Crabbe had absently chewed his quill to pieces and was now spitting out bits of feather.

Harry rubbed his scar and tried to concentrate.

The exam, when it finally came, seemed to last far longer than the single hour allotted. When the ghost of Professor Binns told them to put down their quills and roll up their parchment, Harry couldn’t help cheering with the rest.

They had a whole week, now, a whole wonderful week of absolutely nothing at all until their exam results came out. Nerves fluttered in Harry’s stomach but he pushed them aside; this was no time to worry about how he’d done on his tests.

The first years joined the crowds flocking out onto the sunny grounds. Harry could hear Hermione behind him pestering Weasley about the test questions, but the last thing Harry wanted to do right now was think about anything else relating to History of Magic, so he put on a bit of speed to catch up with Draco instead of turning around to talk to the Gryffindor girl.

Three other Gryffindors were tickling the tentacles of the giant squid, who seemed to like them a lot more than it had Goyle. Harry and the Slytherins cut a wide berth around the two red-headed boys and their dark-skinned friend; those were the Weasley twins, and Harry had been successfully dodging them for months. The last thing he wanted to do was pop up into their line of vision now that the distraction of exams had just ended, especially with his scar twinging.

“Would you stop that?” Draco snapped.

Harry dropped his hand from his forehead. “Sorry,” he said.

“If it still hurts, go see Quirrell again. Or better yet, tell Snape.”

Harry shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said. “Besides, they’re probably busy grading right now, I don’t want to bother them.”

“Then for Merlin’s sake go see Madame Pomfrey and have her give you something,” Draco said tetchily. “You’re making me twitchy.”

“Sorry,” Harry said again. He laid back on the grass and watched the clouds move over head. He was careful to keep his hands at his sides. Harry watched an owl flutter towards the school across the bright blue sky, a note clamped in its mouth. Hagrid was the only one who ever sent him letters.

He hadn’t spoken to the tall gamekeeper since his unsatisfactory letter last month. Harry wondered how Hagrid was doing and felt a pang of guilt for not asking sooner.

He had just about made up his mind to go and visit him when Goyle dug a deck of cards out of his school bag and challenged them all to Exploding Snap.

Plenty of time to go see Hagrid next week, Harry reassured himself. Without exams or classes to get in the way, he’d have all the time in the world.

“Okay,” Harry said, “deal them out, then.”

 

It was after midnight when Harry suddenly woke, screaming.

He hit the floor and lay very, very still.


	13. The Headmaster's Tale

Harry blinked then squinted against the light. What light?

His room was well beneath the castle, and the lights that hung there were soft and vaguely greenish, so what was in his eyes? It seemed like sunlight.

Grimacing, Harry cracked his eyes open and saw that it was sunlight after all: the pale, watery kind that one finds when one wakes up far too early in the morning.

Harry groaned and rolled over and only then realized that he was not in his own bed.

He looked around, bewildered, at what had to be the hospital wing. How had he gotten here, and why? Harry frowned and tried to remember, but came up with nothing but a big, black blur. He sat up and winced. His head was throbbing! His scar prickled, too, but not as badly as it had been.

Harry scrubbed his eyes, still blinking at the unusual sunlight. He saw the pale lump of Draco Malfoy curled up asleep in a chair next to the bed. “Morning,” said Harry.

Draco woke with a start, scrambling out of his chair. “Morning,” he gasped. He looked shaky and disheveled.

“What happened?” Harry asked.

“Dunno,” muttered Draco. “You just woke up screaming, and then you passed out.”

“I did what?” Harry said.

Draco nodded.

Harry frowned. “Weird,” he said. “How long was I asleep?”

“All yesterday,” Draco told him. “There was some kind of fight, too.”

“What? With who?”

“Dunno,” Draco said again. “Rumor says it was teachers.” He kept shifting back and forth, refusing to meet Harry’s eyes.

“Really?” Harry gasped. “Was it—was it Snape or Quirrell? Were they after the, the thing?”

Draco shrugged. “Nobody’s saying,” he replied. “But _something_ happened.”

“Wow,” said Harry.

“I wasn’t worried about you,” Draco added, “by the way. It’s just, Crabbe and Goyle are really boring. So I’m glad you’re better.” Then he turned and fled.

Harry was only left gaping for a moment before another visitor came in: It was Dumbledore himself, looking solemn but alert despite the early hour.

“Feeling better, Harry?” he asked.

Harry nodded. “Yes sir, thanks,” he said. “Please, what happened?”

Dumbledore didn’t answer, but settled himself comfortably in the chair that Draco had so quickly vacated. He smiled, more to himself than to Harry, and picked up a licorice wand from the table next to Harry’s bed. There were a few other mounds of candy on it, and a card covered in what looked like Hermione’s small, neat handwriting. Dumbledore toyed with the wand a moment and then looked at Harry, his blue eyes sparkling.

“Misters Crabbe and Goyle, seemingly distrustful of the sort of nutrition that one might encounter in hospital, wanted to make certain that you would be properly fed and sugared,” he explained, offering the licorice to Harry.

Harry took the candy politely but didn’t start eating. He was too curious to be hungry. “That was nice,” he said, trying not to show that he was itching with impatience.

“They seemed quite concerned for you,” Dumbledore said, “although not, I must hasten to add, so distressed that they neglected to carefully make certain that everything was suitable for your eventual consumption.”

Harry couldn’t help but grin. “Right,” he said. He spotted several empty wrappers in the small rubbish bin tucked under the table. One would never be poisoned by contaminated sweets with Crabbe and Goyle around.

“As far as Mister Malfoy goes, if he seemed unusually grumpy,” Dumbledore continued, “then it was probably my fault. I interfered, you see, with his plan to sneak in and visit you with the aide of a certain garment.” Dumbledore’s eyes positively danced over the gold rims of his half-moon spectacles.

Harry grinned, then asked worriedly, “did anyone—”

“It was I who caught Mister Malfoy,” Dumbledore interrupted, “and allowed him in anyway. I did take the liberty of confiscating that rather magnificent cloak, but only to return it safely to your trunk, where it will be awaiting your recovery.”

“Brilliant,” said Harry, relaxing. “Thanks, sir.”

“You are quite welcome, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

“Um, sir?” asked Harry.

“Yes?”

“Can I, um…can I ask what happened?”

“Certainly,” replied Dumbledore. The merriness faded from his eyes and he gazed at Harry solemnly. “It was Professor Quirrell, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “He tried to take the Stone.”

“The—the what, sir?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore. Harry got the feeling that for some reason, the headmaster was disappointed with him. But Dumbledore just pulled his glasses off and began polishing them with the hem of his sleeve as he calmly explained:

“You recall, I am sure, that the third floor corridor was off-limits to students this year?”

“Yes sir,” said Harry. He hesitated, then decided to trust Dumbledore; he hadn’t yelled at him about the Mirror, after all. “It’s because whatever Hagrid took out of Vault 713—that day when he took me to Diagon Alley?—that’s where it was hidden, right?”

“Yes, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “That is precisely what was hidden there.”

“What was it?” Harry asked eagerly.

“Something very dangerous, that might well have enabled Lord Voldemort to return to power, if he had been able to get his hands on it.”

Harry’s jaw dropped open.

“Fortunately,” Dumbledore continued, “both he and Quirrell found themselves unable to bypass all of the myriad levels of spells and protections that had been put in place to prevent such a theft.”

“Like Fluffy,” Harry muttered, without thinking. He clapped a hand over his mouth, horrified. He hadn’t meant to get Hagrid into any trouble!

But Dumbledore was still smiling. “Indeed,” he said. “Your friend Hagrid was gracious enough to provide his large friend, Fluffy, to assist myself and the teachers with our protective measures.”

“But Quirrell figured out how to get past him?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore nodded. His face had gone very grave and suddenly tired. “I’m afraid so,” he said slowly, “and quite nearly got Hagrid into a lot of trouble in the process.”

“What did he do?” Harry asked.

But this time Dumbledore shook his head firmly. “That is a matter that I will not discuss without Hagrid’s permission,” the headmaster said. “He is quite embarrassed about the whole affair, and I will not breech his confidence by repeating the story.”

“That’s fair,” said Harry, disappointed. “So, Quirrell got past Fluffy?” he prompted.

“Professor Quirrell was able to breach all the layers of enchantments, actually, save for the very last one,” Dumbledore obligingly continued. “That one was my own devising, and if I may boast a bit, one of my more brilliant ideas, which between you and me, is saying something.” Dumbledore was smiling again. “Although I am afraid that that clever mirror you were so captivated by has been broken.”

“What?” cried Harry. “The Mirror of Erised?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore nodded, “that was where I had hidden the object of Voldemort’s desire, and in his frustrated attempts to remove it from the mirror, he eventually shattered the whole thing.”

“Oh,” said Harry. Cold disappointment curled in his gut. He hadn’t gone looking for the mirror again, but he hadn’t been entirely able to forget it, either. He had always hoped that he might see it again someday; it, and his parents within it.

“Fortunately, before either Quirrell or his master could devise some way of besting the enchantment anyway—”

“You mean—you mean Volde—sorry, You-Know-Who—he was _in_ the castle?” Harry interrupted, wide-eyed.

“Call him Voldemort, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

“Yes, sir. But he was—”

“In the castle, yes.” Dumbledore sighed. “I am afraid that Voldemort was here all year, in a manner of speaking.”

Harry stared.

“It seems that Professor Quirrell had encountered Lord Voldemort at some point during his travels, and become loyal to him, even to the extent of allowing what was left of Voldemort to share his body and lifeforce.”

“Ew,” said Harry.

Dumbledore chuckled. “Quite,” he said.

“So he was, what… _part_ of Quirrell?”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore.

“Ew,” Harry repeated, louder. He ate some licorice wand after all, to chase away the sour taste that revelation had left in his mouth.

“So what happened to them?” Harry asked. “To Quirrell, and You-Know—sorry—Voldemort?”

“As I was saying, they were interrupted while attempting to disenchant the mirror. Professor Snape had been keeping an eye on Quirrell for me all year—I may not have realized how, shall we say, _closely_ he was serving Voldemort,” Dumbledore’s smirk was wry, “but I was at least clever enough to notice his newly sinister motives, and take a few precautions.” His smile faded. “If I had known that Voldemort himself was with Quirrell, of course, I would have taken more, but as it was…” Dumbledore shrugged. “Well, Professor Snape managed to prevent Quirrell from causing too much harm during the year—”

“The troll!” Harry suddenly exclaimed. “And the music box! Did he—?”

Dumbledore nodded. “It would seem so,” he said.

Harry’s mind whirled. “So, Snape stopped him?”

“Professor Snape, Harry, and yes. He confronted Quirrell—”

“And they fought?”

“If you keep interrupting me, Harry, I will never get the story told,” Dumbledore said gently, “and I do have a great many other things to do today.”

“Sorry, professor.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Well,” he said, “they did indeed fight. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick noticed the commotion and joined in on the duel as well. Quirrell, even with the assistance of his master, was quite unable to overcome the three of them. Even with my absence—”

“Absence?” exclaimed Harry. “Where were you—sorry,” he stopped himself quickly.

The corner of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched slightly, but he pretended that he hadn’t heard Harry’s interjection. “Even with my absence,” Dumbledore continued, “I do believe that the both of them might well have been apprehended, were it not for a rather unfortunate stroke of luck.”

Harry sat up higher in the bed. He bit his lip to keep from speaking.

“One of Professor Snape’s spells backfired, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore explained, “and what ought to have incapacitated Professor Quirrell instead caused Voldemort himself to quite nearly manifest. A dreadful surprise to all those present, you can imagine. I do believe that it was the shock of that manifestation that so affected you, Harry.”

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Very powerful curses—such as those which Voldemort uses to kill—can leave lingering effects,” he said, his eyes traveling the length of Harry’s scar. “Haven’t you found?”

Harry absently rubbed his scar, thinking of the way it had been burning these last few weeks. He nodded.

“Fortunately,” Dumbledore added, “it is not only Dark Magic which can have a lasting impact.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore smiled. “You’ll find out for yourself, someday,” he said, “I have no doubt.”

Harry frowned. “Okay,” he grumbled. He knew it would be no good to argue. “But what happened to Quirrell?” he asked, “and Voldemort?”

“When I returned to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore told him, “Voldemort knew that he was lost, and he fled, abandoning Quirrell, who did not survive his master’s departure. Their forms and life-forces were too entwined by this point.”

“So he just—left Quirrell to die?”

“Loyalty,” Dumbledore said solemnly, “to Voldemort, while something that he demands from his followers, is not a trait that he himself has ever shown any evidence of.”

Harry frowned. “So, wait—he got away?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Dumbledore, “yes. Not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. However, while his return to power may have been only delayed, if he is delayed again, and again, then he may never achieve his resurrection at all.”

“But how was he going to?” Harry asked. “How could whatever it was—a stone of some sort?—how could that help him come back? What was it?”

Dumbledore smiled kindly. “I’m afraid that that is a matter between myself and a very old friend,” he said gently. His warm tones sounded to Harry almost sad, as if he had just been let down by something. The twinkling blue eyes that peered down at Harry over the headmaster’s half-moon glasses seemed to be trying to tell him something. “Would you like a chocolate frog?” Dumbledore asked mildly. “I find their good-natured exertions always cheer me up when I’m feeling a bit low.”

Harry thanked Dumbledore politely and pulled open the wrapper. The frog gave a feeble little croak and hopped down out of Harry’s hands. He caught it quickly before it could get chocolate smears on the bed sheets and bring the wrath of Madame Pomfrey down upon them all. The wizard card that came tucked in with the frog fluttered out. Harry looked down and saw Dumbledore’s kind, wise old face staring up at him.

“Look professor, it’s you!” he exclaimed.

But when he looked up, grinning, Dumbledore was gone. Harry looked back down at the picture on the card but it, too, was empty and he was once more alone.

 

 

Madame Pomfrey made Harry stay for several more hours, despite his vehement and pleading protestations. She was worried that he might have a relapse. Nothing Harry said—including an admittedly garbled recounting of Professor Dumbledore’s explanation of curses—could dissuade the hospital matron from her decision.

He was at least allowed visitors, although Draco did not return—which meant that neither Crabbe nor Goyle showed up, either. Hermione stopped in although once Harry explained about his scar and Voldemort, she scolded him for not speaking to someone about it sooner.

“I tried to!” Harry exclaimed, “but Snape interrupted—and good thing, because Quirrell had Voldemort hiding inside him, remember?”

Hermione got rather grumpy at that and began to lecture him, so Harry pretended he was tired and she went away again. He almost immediately regretted it, because even a stuffy lecture from Hermione Granger was preferable to idling around all alone in the hospital wing—mostly.

But then things got better, because Hagrid came in, and Hagrid felt so badly about Harry being in hospital that he finally told him everything he’d been keeping secret:

The animal had been a dragon, and it had been Quirrell (and Voldemort) who had given him the egg, in the process learning how to get past Fluffy—Hagrid felt so guilty over that that he actually cried a little, which made Harry more uncomfortable than his scar had—and since it was illegal to own dragons, the Ministry had come calling when someone (probably Quirrell) had leaked word of its presence, and Dumbledore had only barely been able to smooth things over.

Hagrid had been forced to give the dragon up, however, which he was still terribly sad about.

He had named it Norbert.

And he said that, to apologize to Harry for keeping secrets, he was putting together a present for him. It was a secret, too, but in this case, a good one, Hagrid promised.

“Brilliant, Hagrid,” Harry said, “thanks. You don’t have to do that, though—”

“No,” Hagrid said, shaking his head so hard that Harry was afraid he was going to hurt himself. “I owe yeh, and yer outta have somethin’ like this anyway.”

“Something like what?” Harry asked, but Hagrid refused to say.

 

 

Harry finally got out of the hospital just in time to run to the Great Hall and swallow some food before the final Quidditch match of the year got started.

“I’m here!” he gasped, sliding onto the bench next to Draco.

“About time,” Draco complained.

“Talk to Pomfrey,” Harry grumbled. “She barely let me out as is.”

Then Harry didn’t say anything else because he was busy eating as fast as he could.

“So did the old coot tell you what really happened?” Draco asked. “Snape won’t say anything.”

Harry frowned at Dumbledore being called an “old coot,” but nodded.

“Great,” Draco said, “you can tell us all the details— _after_ the match. We haven’t got time now.”

Harry nodded, trying to indicate without pausing to speak that he knew how late they were running. Even Crabbe and Goyle, for once, looked eager to get up from the table, although that hadn’t stopped them from continuing to nibble while they waited for Harry.

Draco drummed on the table impatiently. “Hurry up!” he said. “We’re not going to be able to get good seats.”

“Mmumph,” Harry replied, his mouth full.

Draco turned to the tall boy sitting next to him. “Crabbe,” he ordered, “go ahead down and save us spots. Right up front!”

“Right.” Crabbe nodded and raced off, as eager to get to the pitch as the rest of them.

Goyle stood up. “Where are you going?” Draco snapped, and he sat back down again.

“Finished!” Harry gasped, bolting half a glass of pumpkin juice. He scrambled off the bench, Draco just a beat behind. Goyle jumped back to his feet and they all ran out of the castle.

“Thanks—for waiting,” Harry gasped. “And thanks—for the—candy,” he added to Goyle.

Goyle grunted back and then they were shoving their way through the crowds, trying to find Crabbe. Having Goyle with them certainly made that part easier. Even fifth year students got out of his way. Harry was glad that Draco had stopped him from running off with Crabbe. He and Draco would have never been able to fight their way through this crowd alone.

Nearly the entire castle was already in the stands, and the rest of them seemed to be quickly coming to join in. This was the last Quidditch match of the year, and everything depended on it. If Ravenclaw won, Slytherin would take the cup. But if Gryffindor won, it would come down to a matter of points. They would have to beat Ravenclaw by an immense score to overtake Slytherin’s lead, but stranger things had happened in Quidditch.

Harry crossed his fingers and crowded against the rail. “Come on,” he muttered, squinting at the tiny figures on their brooms, “come on…”

“AND THEY’RE OFF!”

 

 

Harry still felt like cheering two days later when the whole school assembled in the Great Hall for the end-of-year feast. It was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and silver to celebrate their winning the house cup for the eighth year in a row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the High Table.

Harry smiled widely at everyone, even the Weasley twins, who scowled back. The Gryffindors had won their match, but were still stewing in bitter defeat, because Slytherin had taken the cup anyway.

Up at the High Table with the other teachers, Snape for once actually seemed pleased. He was smirking in a very satisfied way, despite the fact that he still had several half-healed slashes down the side of his face and he was, once again, limping. McGonagall and Flitwick likewise showed signs of their recent duel with Quirrell-and-Voldemort, although their spirits were much lower than Snape’s, especially McGonagall’s.

Harry gave his head of house a cheery wave and Snape’s smile abruptly vanished. He looked at Harry as coolly as if he had never seen him before; as if he hadn’t saved his life once if not twice this past year. Harry faltered. He had expected the Potions Master’s animosity to fade now that he was no longer spending every spare moment skulking about, spying on Quirrell, but Snape didn’t seem to have changed a bit. He pointedly turned away from Harry.

Oh well, Harry thought, and poured himself some pumpkin juice.

He looked up as a buzz ran through the crowd: Dumbledore had arrived. The babble died away.

“Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were…you have the whole summer to get them nice and empty before next year starts…

“Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and twenty-nine; in third, Ravenclaw has three hundred and eighty-seven; Gryffindor with four hundred and twelve; and Slytherin, at four hundred and ninety-one, takes the cup.”

A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from Harry’s housemates. He actually stood up to clap, then was lifted off his feet when Goyle hugged him. Draco banged his goblet on the table and even Theodore applauded wildly.

“Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” Dumbledore said, “and congratulations to everyone on an impressive showing. However, if you will permit me, I feel the need to take a moment to make you all aware of something even more impressive:

“Teamwork.”

Dumbledore seemed to be looking right at Harry as he spoke. “You have all worked together marvelously within your own houses to achieve your justly outstanding scores this year,” he said, “but even more remarkable is what one can accomplish when one reaches beyond the narrow borders of house-unity to encompass the entire school—or even beyond that, to the rest of this world.

“No doubt all of you have heard the several and varied rumors that have been making the rounds of the school these past few days,” Dumbledore continued with a bright twinkle in his eyes and a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “Rather than deny you all the joys of ferreting out the truth—and the far more amusing falsehoods—by boring you with the lengthy details, I will say merely that we owe a great debt of gratitude to several of our teachers today, all of whom put aside any thoughts of house pride or division to work together in a very dangerous, very important situation.”

Harry wasn’t the only one whose eye wandered between Snape, McGonagall, and Flitwick.

“I feel confident in saying,” the headmaster went on quietly, “that if they had not risen so impressively to the trial, we would all of us be in a very different world right now; a world that I, for one, have no desire to discover. So!” Dumbledore stood up, and after some shuffling, the students stood with him. “Let us all raise a glass and have a cheer for Professors McGonagall, Snape, and Flitwick!

“Hip hip…”

“Hooray!”

“Hip hip…”

“Hooray!”

“Hip hip…”

“HOORAY!”

The cheering echoed off the high ceiling. Dumbledore clapped harder than anyone, staring fondly at his staff. Flitwick beamed and ducked beneath the table to wipe tears from his eyes. McGongall blushed all the way to her hairline and drank a lot of water very fast. Professor Sprout threw her arms around the tall, stern witch in a hug that caught McGonagall completely off guard. Sprout had to pound her several times on the back before she stopped choking. Snape’s lips twitched, once, in something that was nearly a smile, before he resumed his customary expression of cool disdain.

It was a long time before the cheering faded and they got around to eating any of the delicious feast.

Harry was on his way back to the common room and feeling very pleasantly tired and overstuffed when something very large and hairy blocked his path.

“Hi Hagrid!” Harry said, beaming up at the tall gamekeeper.

“Got yeh yer present,” Hagrid said, his cheeks red and his voice slurred. He fished inside the pockets of his great coat and came out with a handsome, leather-covered book, and two slumbering dormice. He tucked the dormice back into his pockets and handed the book to Harry.

He opened it curiously. It was full of wizarding photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every page were his mother and father.

“This…this is better than the mirror,” he stammered, not caring that the words wouldn’t make sense to anyone but he and Dumbledore.

“Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, askin’ fer photos…knew yeh didn’ have any…d’yeh like it?”

Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood.

 

 

Harry had almost forgotten that the exam results were still to come, but come they did. To his great surprise, not only did he pass with good marks, but Crabbe and Goyle both scraped by as well. Draco had scored the best out of all the Slytherins, beating a very grumpy Theodore Nott by only two points, but it was of course Hermione Granger who had the best grades of all the first years, which made all the Slytherins very cross.

Draco smirked and said it was a shame that Longbottom hadn’t been thrown out over his potions scores, which made Harry feel vaguely guilty, although he couldn’t remember why.

And suddenly, their wardrobes were empty, their trunks were packed, Crabbe’s gobstones were scrounged up from under the furnishings; notes were handed out to all students, warning them not to use magic over the holidays; Hagrid was there to take them down to the fleet of boats that sailed across the lake; they were boarding the Hogwarts Express; talking and laughing as the countryside became greener and tidier; eating Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans as they sped past Muggle towns; pulling off their wizard robes and putting on jackets and coats; pulling into platform nine and three-quarters at King’s Cross Station.

It took quite a while for them to get off the platform. A wizened old guard was up by the ticket barrier, letting them go through the gates in twos and threes so they didn’t attract attention by all bursting out of a solid wall at once and alarming the Muggles.

“I wouldn’t mind giving them a fright,” Crabbe muttered, and they all laughed.

People jostled them as they moved forward toward the gateway back to the Muggle world. Crabbe and Goyle jostled back, and their quartet was soon treated more politely.

Harry and Draco pushed through the gateway together, Crabbe and Goyle coming close on their heels.

“Draco!” Narcissa Malfoy descended on her son, catching his face with both her hands and planting several kisses on the top of his head. Draco rolled his eyes at Harry, who stifled a laugh into his sleeve.

Then he thought of the Dursleys, and of the mirror, and how it really wouldn’t be so bad to be embarrassed by your mother like that, even in front of everyone. Harry patted his trunk, thinking of the photo album inside, and smiled sort of wistfully.

Then Lucius Malfoy was shaking his hand, and Harry stammered as he tried to remember his manners, and wished that Draco’s father didn’t have quite so firm a grip.

“You’ll have to come and stay sometime this summer, Potter,” Draco declared haughtily. Harry almost managed not to notice the slight emphasis he placed on the surname, and the way he looked around to see who was listening. His parents’ eyes glittered.

“Brilliant,” said Harry, “I’ll need something to look forward to.”

“Right,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose, “the _Muggles_.”

“Ready, are you?”

It was Uncle Vernon, still purple-faced, still mustached, still looking furious at the nerve of Harry, carrying an owl in a cage in a station full of ordinary people. Behind him stood Aunt Petunia and Dudley, looking terrified at the very sight of Harry.

As one, the Malfoys stepped back, identical looks of sudden disgust on their pale faces. Mr. Malfoy sniffed disdainfully and tucked his hands in his sleeves, as if clasping a hidden wand. Mrs. Malfoy shuddered delicately and averted her eyes. Draco stared at Dudley like he’d never seen anything like him before, which was of course ridiculous, because he was really only a few inches wider than Goyle. But Goyle, of course, was a wizard, and Dudley was…well, Dudley.

“Potter’s Muggles, no doubt,” Mr. Malfoy murmured quietly. His lip curled in a sneer.

Draco’s mother put a hand to her chest as though she might be ill. Harry had never seen a look of such intense distaste as the one currently twisting Narcissa Malfoy’s pretty features. Her other hand clutched Draco’s shoulder protectively, perhaps to keep the Muggles from running off with him, or perhaps to prevent some sort of contamination should Draco be tempted to get too close. Harry saw, out of the corner of his eye, that Aunt Petunia was doing the same with Dudley.

Harry coughed into his sleeve instead of laughing.

Uncle Vernon carefully didn’t look at anyone, not even Harry. He kept his eyes fixed on a point just above Harry’s head. “Hurry up, boy,” he said, “we haven’t got all day.” He walked away.

Draco shook his head, wide-eyed. “You going to be all right with those… _Muggles?_ ” he asked dubiously.

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” said Harry, surprising everyone with the grin that was spreading over his face. “ _They_ don’t know we’re not allowed to use magic at home.”

Understanding dawned on Draco, and then on his parents; they shared a thin, pale smirk.

Harry mirrored the expression. “I’m going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer…”

Draco Malfoy’s sharp laughter followed him all the way to the parking lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for reading (and hopefully enjoying) this alternative take on Harry Potter's first year at Hogwarts. I appreciate all of your words of encouragement and especially the occasional bit of censure. I want you all to know that I fully intend to continue with Harry's Slytherin adventures, and am already hard at work on a rather different version of _Chamber of Secrets_. It may be a while before I start posting anything, though, because I want to get the whole story mapped out very clearly first, so as to avoid writing myself into any corners. I appreciate your patience in advance and hope to see you all come back, eventually, to see where Harry's strange new greenish world takes him next. Thank you!


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